Chapter II The Peril of the Silver Pit
“Ah, this is just what I like!” declared Mark Redisham from his elevated perch on the trawler’s windward bulwark. “It’s heaps better than being ashore in camp!”
Darby Catchpole, seated beside him, clapped his feet together in delight.
“It’s lovely,” he agreed; “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”
They were far out on the blue waters of the North Sea, steaming towards the fishing grounds of the Dogger Bank in the trawler What’s Wanted, an entirely new craft, owned by Catchpole’s father and now making her first working trip.
“It’s a pity none of the other chaps are with us,” regretted Redisham.
“You needn’t be sorry Max Hilliger isn’t here,” Darby responded. “He turned ridiculously crusty yesterday morning when the constable spoke about our beating the Germans. I suppose it was natural, since he’s a German himself. Of course, he couldn’t have stopped in the troop, even if he’d wanted to, being one of the enemy. But he might have had the grace to pay his debts. Mr. Bilverstone will never get the three shillings he owed him.”
“Why? Max hasn’t left the town, has he?”
“Yes, he has. He went off by the afternoon tide in that Dutch ketch that has been lying in the Roads so long. I suppose we’ve seen the last of him.”
Redisham glanced round the wide stretch of sea, as if in search of the ketch, but there was no sign of her.
Darby jumped down from his perch, and Mark followed him aft, past the wheel-house, to find the skipper giving instructions for the trawl to be put out. They were now near the fishing grounds of the Silver Pit, a favourite spot for longshore soles and turbot.
When the trawling gear was out, the skipper and his two guests went below for breakfast in the tiny compartment which did service as a cabin. In taking his seat at the narrow flap table, Mark Redisham had to make room for himself by removing a gun. He examined the weapon, and, recognising it, looked across at Darby Catchpole.
“Why on earth have you brought your fowling-piece with you?” he asked in surprise. “Do you expect that you may need to defend yourself against the enemy?”
Darby laughed.
“No,” he explained. “I told you once that I’m helping to complete the collection of East Coast birds for the Haddisport Museum. They don’t possess a specimen of the common or North Sea tern. I thought perhaps I might get one.”
He took his fowling-piece on deck with him. There were many sea birds—gannets, mews, and fulmars—flying about, but the graceful sea swallow was absent, and he transferred his interest to the work of hauling in the trawl.
The first take was disappointing; the second more fortunate. Time after time the gear was brought in, and gradually a considerable number of fish accumulated.
Redisham had brought with him a pair of marine glasses, of which he was especially proud. They were particularly powerful, and he was constantly testing them by trying to read the names on distant ships. At about nine o’clock he was idly searching the horizon, when his attention was arrested by a strange sail to the far north-east.
“Darby!” he cried. “There’s that Dutch ketch! Have a look at her.”
Darby took up the skipper’s telescope from the top of the skylight and adjusted the focus.
“Yes,” he agreed, after a while. “It’s the same, no doubt. I know her by her weatherboard. But what’s she up to? She’s bang in the track of the steamer bearing down on her! Hullo! The steamer’s stopped! Wait a bit. The Dutchman’s putting out a boat.”
The two Scouts watched what was going on across the sea—the rowing boat pulling alongside the steamship and returning to the ketch, having apparently disposed of some of its passengers.
Why should this transfer of passengers be made in the open sea? And had Max Hilliger anything to do with it?
Mark made out the steamer to be a vessel of about 2,000 tons. She had two cream-coloured funnels, and was furnished with many lifeboats and deckhouses, like a liner. He tried to read her name, but it was hidden by the anchor chain. It satisfied him, however, that she was flying the Red Ensign, and he took no further notice of her as she continued on her course south by west.
Shortly afterwards he was startled by the report of Darby’s fowling-piece.
“Got him!” cried Catchpole. “It’s a tern.”
Darby was a good shot, and he had brought down the bird, which had fluttered into the sea hardly a score of yards from the trawler’s starboard side.
The skipper made no demur when asked to reverse the engines. The boat was lowered, and Darby secured his prize. But his disappointment was great when he discovered that the bird was not a tern, or a web-footed sea bird of any species, but an ordinary domestic pigeon. He was on the point of casting it back into the sea when Redisham checked him.
“Wait!” cried Mark. “Which way was it flying?”
Darby looked at him in perplexity.
“What’s your idea?” he questioned. “It was flying from north-east to south-west.”
“Just what I guessed,” returned Mark, with a significant nod. “It was going towards Haddisport from the Dutch ketch. It’s one of Max Hilliger’s pigeons. Let’s have a look at it.”
They examined the dead bird, and sure enough they discovered a strip of thin paper bandaged round one of the legs. The writing upon it was in minute shorthand.
“It’s German!” declared Mark. “We must give it up to some naval officer to translate. I’ll keep it in my pocket-book, shall I—till we get home?”
“Perhaps it came off the steamer, and not the ketch,” suggested Darby.
They turned to look for the steamship, and saw her steaming southward, across their own wake. Although she was many miles away, it was possible now to distinguish her name, for the sunlight was upon her. They spelled out the words Minna von Barnhelm.
“Why, she’s a German!” cried Mark, “and now she’s flying the German naval ensign! Hullo! That’s queer! There’s something gone wrong with her. She’s sprung a leak, surely! She’s jettisoning her cargo. Have a squint at her!”
A large, dark object, like a cask or packing case, fell with a light splash into the sea under the steamer’s counter. It seemed to have dropped from an inclined plank put out under her taffrail. She was going slowly while this was being done, but presently she put on steam and moved off, gathering speed, and was soon a mere speck in the far south.
The What’s Wanted now altered her course to the westward, steered by Mark Redisham, for the two Sea Scouts were allowed to take each a spell at the wheel.
During every moment they were learning something new. What Darby enjoyed as much as anything was to work the winch which hauled in the loaded trawl; but always when the gear was brought inboard there was the excitement of emptying the pocket of the net and seeing what varieties of fish and strange marine creatures had been dredged up.
Darby was at the winch one moment, while Mark was pricking off the trawler’s course on the chart, when the mate at the stern shouted excitedly:
“Belay there! Stop the winch, sir! Hold hard. We’ve fetched up a bit of wreck!”
Mark Redisham ran aft and looked over the side. The trawl beam was against the quarter bulwark, and a curious big, oval object, which at first glance looked like the back of a huge fish, was jammed between the beam and the vessel’s side.
Mark leant over, and looked at the thing more closely; then he leapt back, trembling from head to foot.
“Steady all!” he cried hoarsely. “Don’t move that winch, Darby! For the life of you, keep it still! Leave it, and come here—quick!”
Darby, the skipper, the mate, the engineer, the whole crew went up to him, staring at the thing which had so filled him with alarm. He alone seemed to know what it was.
“Stand back!” he cried. “Don’t touch it! Don’t go near it! It’s a mine—a contact mine! If it’s moved only an inch there’ll be an explosion. See those spikes on the top of it? They’re the detonators. One of them’s resting on the rail! If it breaks—it’s glass—if it breaks, we’re all done for!”
The skipper, pocketing his pipe, looked through screwed-up eyes into the boy’s face.
“Any c’nection with this yer war, Mester Redisham?” he coolly inquired.
“It has every connection with it,” Mark answered calmly.
He went cautiously nearer to examine the exact position of the mine. It was balanced on its own circumference, held against the side by the trawl board; but every slightest movement of the ship threatened to explode it.
“We can’t cut it away,” he decided. He turned to the mate. “Dick,” he ordered, “launch the boat very carefully and let us all quit.”
Fortunately the boat was at the farther end, hanging outward from the davits. Mark advised the skipper exactly what to do. He pointed out that by passing a warp round the trawl gear and hauling upon it from seaward the mine might be released and slip back into the sea. This was the only chance, and in case it should fail, every one was to get into the boat.
He was himself the last to leave the ship. They took the longest rope, and, rowing round, contrived at great risk to lash an end of it to the lower extremity of the trawl beam. Four men were at the oars. Paying out the rope over the stern as they rowed away, they hauled upon it until it became fairly taut.
“Steady!” commanded the skipper. “Back ’er a bit—belay—row starboard!”
He manoeuvred the boat until the pull of the rope was at the proper angle, then the tension was slowly tightened. The trawl beam swayed very slightly at first; but suddenly there was a heavy jerk, the mine moved, but it was not dislodged. Mark Redisham saw one of the detonators bending.
“Look out!” he shouted.
Instantly the air and sea together were torn by a terrific crash, which must have been heard a score of miles away. In that instant Mark saw the whole fabric of the trawler burst open. The boat heaved under him, and he was flung forward, stunned and unconscious.