The Mystery Ship 16

The Mystery Ship 16

"How much further?" he asked himself at the end of two hours. "Hanged

if they seem any nearer. Wind and tide are with me, too."

 

Compared with flying through the air at a hundred and fifty miles an

hour, his present rate of progression was indeed painfully slow, yet

with the dogged determination of an Englishman, "never to say die

till you're dead," he tugged at the heavy oars until his blistered

hands grew raw and his muscles ached as if his back would break.

 

With night the wind dropped and the sea assumed a placid, oily

aspect. The land was now invisible, for not a light could be seen

from seaward. Fortunate it was that the young airman had been

compelled to undergo a course of astronomy. He hated it at the time;

now he was glad, for by keeping the North Star broad on his starboard

beam, he knew that he was heading towards the shores of Scotland.

 

His task was stupendous. The drag of the boat, which contained more

than a ton of the North Sea, was terrific. He was wearing badly.

Cold, hunger and fatigue were telling. Almost mechanically he swotted

at the heavy oars.

 

He had lost all count of time, when he heard a faint rumble. It was

the surf lashing the beach. Encouraged, yet realising that other

dangers lurked on that surf-beaten shore, he rallied his remaining

energies, counting each stroke as he bent to the oars.

 

At the one thousand and eightieth stroke he desisted. Around him the

water was phosphorescent and white with the backlash of the waves.

His task was accomplished. Human endurance had attained its limit. He

was powerless to control his water-logged craft in the breakers. All

he could do was to sit tight and trust in Providence.

 

For another five minutes the sorely-tried _Pip-squeak_ was tossed and

buffeted in the broken water, until a tremendous jar announced that

in the trough of the waves she had touched hard shingle.

 

Then, like an avalanche, a cascade of foam swept completely over the

boat. Frantically Pyecroft strove to grip the gunwale. Torn away by

the rush of water, he was conscious of being pounded on the shingle.

Then came the dreaded undertow.

 

Vainly he attempted to grasp the rolling shingle. He felt himself

being swept backwards to be again overwhelmed by the next roller,

when his retrograde motion was arrested by a heavy object. It was the

_Pip-squeak_. Even in the last stages of her existence Jefferson's

boat seemed destined to be of service.

 

With a final effort as the frothy water slithered past Pyecroft

gained his feet. The hiss of the approaching breaker gave strength to

his limbs. Stumbling, terror-stricken, and well-nigh exhausted, he

contrived to win the race by inches until, realising that the dreaded

enemy had fallen short, he fell on his face on the wet shingle.

 

For some moments he lay thus until, haunted by the horrible suspicion

that the rising tide would overwhelm him, he staggered a few paces

until he was above high-water mark, and then collapsed inertly upon

the seaweed-strewn shore.

 

How long he lay unconscious he had no idea; but when he came to

himself the moon was shining dimly through a watery haze. The tide

had fallen, and with it the horrible ground-swell had disappeared.

 

He was bitterly cold: his limbs were like lead. An effort to rise was

a dismal failure. He tried to shout, but no sound came from his

parched lips. While he had lain unconscious there must have been a

short spell of wind, for he found that he was covered with dried

wrack and seaweed.

 

"It must be close on daybreak," he thought. "I'll have to stick it a

little longer."

 

He made an attempt to look at his wristlet watch. The dial was no

longer luminous, while an ominous silence had taken the place of an

erstwhile healthy tick. A prolonged submergence had ruined the

delicate mechanism for all time.

 

As he lay, too benumbed to move, he became aware that a boat had

grounded on the beach within a few yards of his involuntary

resting-place. The little craft must have come in very silently, for

until the men's boots grated on the shingle he was unaware of their

presence.

 

Again he tried to shout, but without result. Then, even as he tried

to raise himself, he noticed that with one exception the men wore

unfamiliar uniforms. They were talking softly, with an unmistakable

guttural Teutonic accent.

 

"Huns," thought Pyecroft. "What's their little game? I've done them

so far, and I'm hanged if I want them to put a half-nelson on me now.

I'll lie doggo."

 

Which, considering his weak physical state, was an easy matter to do.

 

The Huns were evidently in a hurry, for after a few words with a

greatcoated individual, they pushed off and rowed seaward, while the

man they had left ashore lifted a portmanteau from the shingle and

made his way towards the cliff with the air of one who is confident

of his surroundings.

 

He passed so close to the prone figure lying partly covered by

seaweed that for a brief instant Pyecroft expected the stranger to

stumble against him.

 

"Good heavens!" ejaculated the astonished Pyecroft. "Where have I

seen that fellow? By Jove--it's Fennelburt. Up to some dirty work: I

wonder what?"

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV

 

A DOUBLE DECOY

 

 

"GUN-FIRE!" exclaimed Lieutenant-Commander Morpeth, sniffing the salt

air like an alert terrier scenting a rat.

 

"Away to the south-east'ard," corroborated Wakefield. "Is this going

to be one of your lucky days, George?"

 

"It won't be for the want of trying," rejoined the R.N. R. man

grimly; then bending till his lips nearly touched the mouth of the

voice tube, he shouted, "Stand by, below there, to whack her up."

 

A few crisp orders followed. Men moved swiftly and silently to their

appointed stations, while the course was altered a couple of points

to take Q 171 to the scene of the supposed action.

 

It was the second day of Wakefield's and Meredith's enforced but none

the less interesting detention on board the mystery ship. Q 171 was

well out into the North Sea, bound for a certain position a few miles

to the west'ard of the now famous Horn Reefs Lightship. The sea was

calm, a light breeze blew from the west'ard, while the sky was filled

with small fleecy clouds drifting slowly athwart the lower

air-currents--an indication of a forthcoming change of wind.

 

The three officers, clad in black oilskins to keep up the rôle of

Hun pirates, had been sitting on the cambered edge of the base of the

dummy conning-tower, yarning of times not long gone and holding forth

wondrous theories of what might happen in the seemingly far distant

epoch after the war.

 

"Small quick-firers," declared Morpeth, as the rumble of the sharp

reports grew louder and louder. "None of our M.L.'s in action by any

chance, I hope?"

 

Slinging his binoculars round his neck, Morpeth, with an agility that

his ponderous frame belied, clambered to the domed top of the

conning-tower, reckless of the fact that his weight was causing the

frail metal-work to "give" ominously.

 

Bringing his glasses to bear upon a faint dot just on the horizon,

Morpeth made a long and steady scrutiny.

 

"Merchant vessel--tramp, by the look of her--chased by a Fritz," he

reported, "Unhealthy work--for Fritz. I'll keep her on my lee bow a

bit. It's no use butting in too soon. Too much dashed hurry spoils

everything."

 

At sixteen knots Q 171 held on, with the apparent object of joining

in the chase and cutting off the fleeing merchantman. Quickly the

chase came in sight--a bluff-bowed, wall-sided tramp, with an

elaborately camouflaged hull.

 

"Confounded scheme that razzle-dazzle," commented Morpeth. "Meet

three or four in a crowded waterway, and you begin to wonder whether

you'll see mother again. Can't tell whether they are bows on, or

what. Fancy we've got her cold, though. For'ard gun, let her have

it."

 

The bow-chaser spat viciously, sending a shrieking missile within a

hundred yards of the tramp, which, badly on fire aft, was still

proudly flying the Red Ensign. Her funnel, hit about six feet above

the deck, was showing signs of collapse, being supported only by the

wire rope guys. Making a bare eight knots, she was evidently at the

mercy of the pursuing U-boat, which, capable of doing eighteen on the

surface, was slowing down after the manner of a cat playing with a

mouse.

 

Q 171, firing rapidly, but deliberately planting her shells wide of

the merchant vessel, now turned twelve points to port. This had the

effect of bringing her into a decidedly convergent course with that

of the U-boat. The latter, probably "smelling a rat," or taking

exception to what appeared to be another of her kind "spoiling the

game," edged away to starboard, at the same time hoisting a signal.

 

By the aid of the appropriated German Naval Code Book, Q 171's

skipper deciphered the signal. It was a peremptory request for the

pseudo U-boat to make her number and thus proclaim her identity.

 

This was easily done. A four letter hoist of bunting fluttered from Q

171's mast, giving the information that she was U 251 of the Imperial

German Navy.

 

"This is my prize," signalled the dog-in-the-manger Fritz.

 

"I have good reasons for joining in the chase," was Morpeth's reply.

 

During the lengthy exchange of flag messages, both boats had

maintained a hot fire upon the tramp. From the genuine U-boat the

result of Q 171's shells could not be observed. Had the Huns been

able to do so, they would have expressed considerable surprise at

their supposed consort's decidedly erratic gunnery; but in the heat

of rivalry they became reckless.

 

Almost imperceptibly, Q 171 lessened the distance between her and her

prey. The tramp was two miles ahead, while barely half a mile separated the U-boat and the decoy.