The Mystery Ship 11

The Mystery Ship 11

"Get a nun-buoy ready to veer astern," he continued, "and signal to

No. 6 to keep the thing dose under her bows. If she doesn't, we'll be

losing each other."

 

While the men were making these preparations the hideous clamour of

No. 6's foghorn attracted their attention. The lighters had increased

their distance to nearly a quarter of a mile, and No. 6 was still

dropping astern.

 

"Ask 'em what's wrong," ordered McIntosh.

 

A signalman, steadying himself with feet planted widely apart on the

plunging deck, semaphored the message. From No. 6 two red and yellow

hand-flags replied. McIntosh, unable to follow the swift movements of

the flags, was obliged to await the signalman's report:

 

"Says, sir, she's overheated her bearings. She'll have to stop or her

engines'll seize up."

 

It was exactly what the Sub was anticipating, and now trouble had

come he met it promptly and resolutely.

 

"Tell them to stand by and receive a hawser," he ordered, at the same

time ringing down for "Slow." "Look alive, there, with that six-inch

rope."

 

While the men were engaged in bringing one end of the hawser to the

after "towing-bitts," McIntosh took the helm and began to run to

starboard in order to close with the disabled lighter. He was working

against time, for already the mist was upon them--the outflung

tentacles of a bank of fog. With a range of visibility of three or

four hundred yards, matters were somewhat complicated, but the

manoeuvre of establishing communication with the helpless craft would

be rendered fourfold difficult, should the baffling fog envelop the

two boats.

 

"All ready with the heaving-line?" shouted the Sub.

 

"All ready, sir."

 

Slowly, even for the low-speed lighter, McIntosh, made for the

disabled vessel, which was now lying broadside on to the fairly

confused sea. The Sub was cautious. Strange to the boat, he knew that

there was a vast difference between the manoeuvring capabilities of

an M.L. and a lighter, and with that fact in mind he displayed an

excess of caution.

 

Almost before he realised the danger, disaster came. Answering too

slowly to her helm, No. 5 crashed heavily against the bluff steel

bows of No. 6. Amidst the hiss of inrushing water, the two engineers

scrambled through the smoke-laden atmosphere of the motor-room and

gained the deck with the tidings that the sea was pouring in like a

mill-race. And to add to the peril the fog was then enveloping the

colliding craft.

 

There seemed no doubt about it: No. 5 was sinking. Had she been

struck anywhere but right aft, her heavy rubbing-strake would have

saved her. As it was she had been hit in a vital spot--her

engine-room.

 

As luck would have it, both lighters drifted together, their

metal-bound sides grinding and bumping in the agitated waves. Since

No. 5 was evidently sinking, the only refuge for her crew was the

deck of disabled No. 6.

 

"Jump for it!" shouted McIntosh. "Every man for himself."

 

Waiting till the last, the Sub snatched up his confidential papers,

thrust them into the pocket of his oilskins, and, as the two lighters

rolled heavily together, he made a flying leap for the deck of No. 6.

 

He was not a moment too soon. At the next roll there was a gap of

five or six yards between the two vessels. Separated by a freak eddy

of the tidal stream, they increased their distance more and more,

until the holed lighter, with her stern level with the water, was

lost to sight in the fog.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X

 

THE SALVAGE SYNDICATE

 

 

"WHAT'S your little game, Cumberleigh?" demanded the major. "Hanged

if I can see what you are driving at."

 

Lunch was over at Auldhaig Air Station. Most of the officers had

drifted in twos and threes into the ante-room to seize the

opportunity of enjoying a smoke before falling in on parade. The

second-in-command and Captain Cumberleigh found themselves alone.

 

"I may be mistaken, sir," replied Cumberleigh, "but I'm not at all

sure about that fellow Fennelburt."

 

"What d'ye mean, old thing? asked the major.

 

"It's a rotten business to explain," replied the captain. "I hope I

don't do the fellow an injustice, but I believe he's a spy."

 

Major Sparrowhawk raised his eyebrows in a manner that indicated

incredulous objection.

 

"Goodness gracious, Cumberleigh!" he exclaimed. "What are you driving

at? The idea's preposterous. There are limits to the imagination, and

I think you're exceeding them."

 

"I have reasons, sir,"

 

"Well, what are they?"

 

"You remember I asked him about Smithers and Tomlinson? I know for a

fact that they were both at Sheerness a week ago."

 

"Yes, and Captain Fennelburt said he knew them."

 

"He did--but I deliberately gave him a totally wrong description of

them. Smithers is fat, but he's short--about five six, I should

think--and he certainly hasn't a mole under his eye. Tomlinson is

fair, not dark, and I've never known him to touch a card either in

the mess or out of it."

 

"There are some very queer cusses in the Service, I'll admit,"

remarked Major Sparrowhawk thoughtfully. "Getting a commission in war

time isn't the same as in normal times. The chap may be pulling your

leg, Cumberleigh. But why did you pal up to him and promise to take

him to the theatre and all that?"

 

"Just to gain time, sir," answered Captain Cumberleigh. "I thought

I'd ask your permission to telegraph to Sheerness Air Station. The

inquiry could be worded discreetly, and if the reply's satisfactory

there's no harm done. If it isn't, then we can take action."

 

"But what aroused your suspicions in the first instance?" asked the

second-in-command.

 

Cumberleigh shrugged his shoulders.

 

"Just a little mannerism of his, sir," he replied. "I've never

before tumbled across it on this side of the Rhine. Spent part of my

far distant youth at Heidelburg, and one notices certain things. So

I've practically put the fellow under arrest, only he doesn't know

it. Young Jefferson'll take him fishing this afternoon, and in the

meanwhile the wires can be getting busy."

 

"Bet you a double whisky you're wrong, Cumberleigh," offered Major

Sparrowhawk.

 

"Done, sir," was the prompt reply.

 

Meanwhile Lieutenant Jefferson, assisted by a couple of

air-mechanics, was getting his boat ready for the fishing expedition.

One of the advantages of being in the Service in war time is that the

uniformed owner of a private boat has a "pull" over his civilian

confrère. The one can make use of his craft almost without restraint

the other is hedged in by a formidable and galling array of

restrictions that are none the less necessary for the well-being of

the State.

 

The _Pip-squeak_, Jefferson's boat, was about fifteen feet in length

and provided with a standing lug-sail and centre-board. Formerly she

belonged to an Auldhaig waterman, who on being mobilised for the

R.N.R. sold her for 3 pounds. Her new owner, who contrived to escape the

irregular meshes of the Recruiting Officer's net, had palmed the

_Pip-squeak_ off on Jefferson for six times the amount he had paid,

or, roughly, the same sum that the boat had cost to build twenty

years ago.

 

The _Pip-squeak_ was no chicken, nor did she lay claim to beauty.

Bluff-bowed, and with an almost entire lack of sheer, she had one

compensating quality: she was as stiff as a house.

 

At the edge of the jetty gathered most of the crew--Cumberleigh,

Jefferson, a "second loot" named Pyecroft, and von Preussen.

 

"An' what are we waitin' for?" demanded Pyecroft, clapping his hands

and stamping his feet. "When I go sailing I like to get on with it.

What are we waitin' for?"

 

"Bait," replied Jefferson laconically.

 

"A _sine quâ non_ for a fishing expedition," added the major, who,

though not one of the party, had strolled down to the jetty

ostensibly to see the start but in reality to observe "Captain

Fennelburt" more closely. The seeds of suspicion are apt to shoot

rapidly.

 

"Here's Blenkinson with the bait," announced Cumberleigh, as another

khaki-clad individual, a first lieutenant, appeared carrying a rusty

tin in one hand and a mud-covered spade in the other.

 

"Here are your precious rag-worms, Jeff," he remarked bitterly. "Next

time you get me on that job I'll borrow your rubber boots. The mud's

stiff with broken glass, and I've cut mine through--look."

 

To prove his words, Blenkinson adroitly balanced himself on one foot

and kicked off a rubber boot. As the foot-gear fell upon the wooden

staging of the jetty a quart of black sea-water poured out.

 

Jefferson sniffed judiciously at the tin.

 

"Fresh enough," he observed, "but, old son, pity you didn't devote

your energies to the worms instead of wasting your time pulling bits

of glass out of your boots. These won't last any time."

 

"No more will my boots, you slave-driving blighter," rejoined the

worm-digger. "I'll swear I shifted a ton of mud without finding a single worm."