The Submarine Hunters by Percy F. Westerman (books for students to read txt) 📕

if I like it," muttered the Flight-Sub. "I say, Trefusis, that light blinking away looks very fishy. It would mean a fifty-pound fine in England; but here, apparently, it is not objected to."

The skipper and the mate were talking rapidly. Both men were leaning over the after side of the bridge-rails, with their eyes fixed upon the dark shore from which the mysterious light flickered at regular intervals.

"Light on the port bow," reported the helmsman. Both of the Hoorn's officers turned just in time to catch sight of a steady white light before it disappeared. Whatever its meaning, it was remarkable that from that moment the shore light ceased to blink.

"Put out our navigation lamps, Jan," said the skipper. "Someone has betrayed your English friends. Nevertheless I will do all in my power to aid them. We'll steer south-west for an hour. Perhaps we may outwit yon craft, whatever she may be, before dawn."

Ross and his companion were quick to note the alteration of helm. They knew, too, that the removal of the steaming-lights was for the purpose of baffling what must be, to a dead certainty, a German craft—a submarine, or perhaps a torpedo-boat, since the latter frequently ventured out of Borkum and crept stealthily towards the Schelde, keeping close to the Dutch territorial waters in order to avoid being snapped by the vigilant British destroyer flotilla.

Slowly the wintry day dawned. Anxiously the British officers scanned the horizon. The low-lying Dutch coast was now invisible. All around was a waste of grey, tumbling waves, unbroken by a sail of any description.

The Hoorn was ploughing her way at a modest ten knots. Short, beamy, and deep-draughted, she was pitching heavily, sending a frothy bow wave far to leeward each time she dipped her nose into the steep seas.

"I'd give a fiver for the sight of a good old White Ensign at the present moment," remarked the Flight-Sub anxiously. "Good heavens, what's that?"

Ten seconds later he laughed mirthlessly.

"Nerves going to blazes," he muttered. "A bit of wreckage gave me the jumps. By Jove, don't we look a pair of comical objects?"

They had discarded their grotesque head-dress. Ross had a woollen muffler wrapped round his head, while his companion had been given the loan of a red stocking-cap, but they still retained the weird garb in which they had made their journey down the ship canal.

Suddenly Ross gripped his companion's arm and pointed with his right hand to a spar-like object projecting a few feet, close to the waves, at less than a cable's length on the port quarter.

"A periscope!" ejaculated the Flight-Sub.

"Let's hope it's one of our own submarines," said Ross.

"We'll soon find out," added his companion. "It's forging ahead. Whatever it is, they've got us under observation."

Jan, who was now on the bridge, had his attention called to the disconcerting fact. He beckoned to his two passengers.

"You had better go below and stow yourselves away," he suggested. "We will be boarded before long."

"Not I," replied the Flight-Sub. "They've marked us already. If they do take us they won't have to dig us out of a coal-bunker."

The submarine was emerging. At a pace that more than held its own with the Hoorn, she shook herself clear of the water, although green seas were breaking across the flat deck as far aft as the conning-tower.

Then muffled forms clambered through the hatchway; a young, yellow-bearded officer appeared on the navigation platform and hailed the Hoorn in Dutch to heave to instantly.

Even then the tough old Dutch skipper was not going to give in without a protest.

"For what reason?" he shouted back. "This is a Netherlands ship."

"That I do not doubt," rejoined the officer of the submarine. "But you have two Englishmen on board who have broken their parole——"

"You lie!" interrupted the skipper vehemently.

"Not a word more!" exclaimed the German fiercely. "Heave to, or we sink you!"

Reluctantly the "old man" gave the order to stop the engines. Jan, sliding down the bridge ladder, communicated to the British officers the text of the conversation.

"Some rascal of a German spy has betrayed you," he added. "If I could lay my hands upon him——"

There was a look on the Dutchman's face which showed that his anger was genuine.

"All right, Jan," said the Flight-Sub. "It's the fortune of war."

"Deucedly rotten morning," remarked Sub-lieutenant Fox as he greeted the officer of the watch, whom he was about to relieve.

Eccles, the Lieutenant, who had been on the Capella's bridge for four long and dreary hours, merely nodded sleepily. He was thinking, with feelings of satisfaction, of the hot coffee and fragrant bacon and eggs awaiting him below. Three minutes had to elapse before eight bells. Wearily he rubbed his salt-rimmed eyelids with a heavily gloved hand.

"Taurus wirelessed twenty minutes ago," he reported, as the two officers entered the chart-room. "She was then at the extreme limit of her northerly course. You ought to sight her very shortly. Here's our course"—he indicated the pencilled line on the chart. "Nothing to report: there never is when I'm officer of the watch. It's this infernal monotony that plays havoc with a fellow's nerves."

Noel Fox nodded sympathetically. Although the Capella had been only six days on her new station—keeping a watch on the Dutch coast between the Texel and the North Hinder Lightship—he, too, was mightily "fed up" with the task of "treading on the tail of Germany's coat".

Not so much as the periscope of a hostile submarine had been sighted. The German torpedo-boats that occasionally sneaked southwards from Borkum were taking an enforced holiday. Perhaps it was in sympathy with the "High Seas Fleet" skulking in the Kiel Canal. In any case, the six motor craft of the Capella class had a full share of wintry conditions in the North Sea without any compensating adventures to mitigate the monotony.

As Eccles descended from the bridge, a great-coated muffled-up figure, followed by a large dog, swung himself up the ladder.

"Morning, Haye," was Noel Fox's salutation, as he stooped to pat Shrap, the chartered libertine of the Capella. "Dash it all, it is cold! Makes a fellow wish he were a sheep-dog. Here, Shrap, off you go and get your whiskers trimmed. I can see Tomkins waiting for you."

The dog needed no second order. Every morning just after eight bells Shrap would be taken over by the watch below. Every man took a delight in combing the animal's long hair, until Shrap's coat was the pride of the Capella's crew and the envy of the rest of the flotilla, whose mascots never aspired to be more than a tame rat, parrot, or canary.

"Sail on the port bow, sir," bawled the look-out.

The Sub and the midshipman promptly levelled their telescopes. A small cargo-steamer was pitching and rolling as she forged slowly ahead on a westerly course. Although she was fairly discernible against the pale grey of the eastern sky, it could be taken for granted that from the Dutchman's bridge the neutral-grey-painted Capella would be practically invisible.

"She's slowing down," declared Vernon.

"What on earth for?" enquired the Sub. "She couldn't possibly have spotted us. Starboard your helm, quartermaster. Good! Keep her at that. We'll get her to make her number, if nothing else."

Again Noel Fox levelled his telescope. Then he thrust it into a rack on the side of the chart-room, and bellowed:

"Turn up, both watches. Action stations. Submarine ahead."

His quick glance had discerned the after part of a large unterseeboot as she ranged alongside the Dutchman, whose high sides screened most of the submarine from the Capella, and conversely prevented the Germans clustered amidships from noticing the approach of the swift British patrol-vessel.

For the next few minutes, all was bustle and orderly confusion on board the Capella. Taking three steps at a time, Captain Syllenger gained the bridge, closely followed by Eccles, to whom the sudden interruption of a hearty breakfast came as a welcome call.

At a terrific pace the sleuth-hound of the sea tore towards the Hoorn, for such she was. Rounding under her squat counter, and reversing engines, the Capella brought up within fifty yards of the submarine before the astonished Germans could realize their precarious plight.

"Surrender, or I sink you!" roared Captain Syllenger.

The grim muzzles of the Capella's 4.7's, trained at a point-blank range, were a conclusive argument. Without waiting for orders, the majority of the unterseeboot's crew held up their arms. For a brief instant did her Kapitan hesitate.

"Me surrender," he replied.

"Very good; I accept your surrender," replied the Capella's skipper. "But understand, any attempt to open the sea-cocks will mean that no quarter will be given. Order all hands below, and leave the hatchways open. You will oblige me by proceeding on board His Majesty's ship Capella."

By this time the Hoorn was forging ahead, since she was in danger of drifting down upon the captured submarine. In the excitement of the capture, no one on board noticed two grotesquely garbed men on the Hoorn whose antics resembled those of a pair of demented creatures; nor was the presence of a couple of dejected German leutnants and five seamen, stranded on board the Dutchman, observed, as the Huns frantically besought the obdurate skipper of the Hoorn to steam as hard as he could towards the Dutch coast.

It was Vernon Haye's duty to take the cutter and board the prize. It was a hazardous piece of work, for the sea was now fairly high, and breaking under the effect of tide against wind; but, with the exception of a broken top-strake, the boat managed to lie sufficiently close alongside the submarine to enable the midshipman and five seamen to board.

Already the German crew were below. Hatches were lowered and secured, with the exception of the one in the after side of the conning-tower. This could be left open without fear of the submarine being swamped, while, to prevent the captured crew closing it and making an attempt to dive, the steel cover was removed from its hinges and secured on deck. The Black Cross flag was hauled down and rehoisted under the White Ensign, and preparations were made to take the prize in tow.

It was some time before a grass rope, to which a stout wire hawser was bent, could be veered from the Capella's quarter and taken on board the submarine, but eventually the hawser was made fast.

"Now, sir," said Vernon, addressing the German Kapitan. "Will you please step into that boat? Where are the other officers?"

"In that ship," replied the Hun sullenly, as he pointed towards the Hoorn. "They will not welcome you, but there are others who will."

Not knowing what the German meant, Vernon indicated that he should get on board the cutter.

"There are two German officers on board that vessel, air," reported the midshipman, as the boat came alongside the Capella. "Am I to bring them off?"

Captain Syllenger hesitated before replying. It was a knotty problem. To remove by force the subjects of a hostile nation from a neutral ship was contrary to international law. However much the Germans violated the "right of search", it was not Great Britain's policy to engage upon reprisals. Holland, although a third-rate Power, had to be treated with due courtesy.

"It's all the same in the long run," replied Captain Syllenger. "Board that vessel, Mr. Haye, and see what those fellows are doing there. If the Dutch skipper objects to their presence on his hooker, then bundle them into the boat. If, on the other hand, he protests against their removal, let them remain. They will be collared as soon as the ship enters our three-mile limit."

The Hoorn had once more come to a dead stop, at two cables' length from the British patrol-vessel.

As the Capella's cutter came alongside, Vernon agilely scrambled up the "monkey ladder" and gained the deck.

"Hulloa, old man!" exclaimed a well-known voice.

Vernon looked at the speaker. He knew the voice, but for a moment he failed to recognize in the oddly garbed youth his chum Ross Trefusis. Then he grinned broadly.

"My word!" he exclaimed. "You do cut a pretty figure."

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