Chapter III Watchers of the Sea
The sound of that explosion carried its warning far over the fishing grounds of the Silver Pit. It reached tramps and colliers plying their ceaseless traffic along the coast. Nearer at hand it alarmed the crew of the trawler Mignonette, who saw the column of smoke and wreckage shot skyward as from the crater of a volcano, and who, regardless of their own danger from floating mines, hastened to the spot to pick up the dazed survivors huddled together in the open boat. It reached the officers and men on a patrol of destroyers speeding northward within sight of the English shores. On the cruiser Atreus it was distinctly heard, coming like a challenge across the waves.
“Oho!” exclaimed the astonished commander, arresting his pacing of the quarter-deck. “Gunfire, eh? Hostilities are opening even earlier than we expected!”
He stood by the binnacle, listening for a second “boom.”
“Seemed to me almost more like the explosion of a contact mine than a gun, sir,” ventured the signal lieutenant, halting beside him.
“A mine?” protested the commander. “No, no, impossible! We have laid no mines. It is not in our programme to lay mines; and certainly not on the high seas. The enemy cannot have laid any, either—not over here; not so promptly, hardly thirty hours after the declaration of war. It cannot have been a mine. And yet there was only one detonation. If it had been a naval gun, it would have been answered. However, we shall soon know. We must go and see. Send out the signal to change course eight points to starboard.”
It chanced that Rodney Redisham was midshipman of the watch, and that it fell to him to help in transmitting this signal.
With the precision of a battalion of soldiers at drill, the flotilla of destroyers and their guide ship wheeled first into line abreast formation and then into line ahead. The Atreus, which before had been leading, now held the rear station, following in the wake of the destroyers; and it was in this order that they appeared an hour later when sighted by Mark Redisham and Darby Catchpole from the deck of the Mignonette.
Mark was unhurt, excepting for a few bruises about the shins. Darby had a scar across his fore-head, and the skipper’s head was badly cut; the mate’s right arm was fractured, and all others of the crew had tested Mark’s skill in first-aid. But they had escaped with their lives, even though the What’s Wanted had disappeared.
“The blamed Germans!” complained the skipper, nursing his bandaged head. “And it was her maiden trip! The mean cowards to come sneakin’ over here a-sowin’ of their mines on the open sea for harmless fishin’ craft to run foul of! ‘T’aren’t accordin’ to any fightin’ rules as ever I’ve heard on. ‘T’aren’t fightin’ at all, nor honest warfare, look at it how you will!”
As the destroyers drew nearer, Mark Redisham grew more and more apprehensive lest they should run into the unsuspected danger of the mine-field, and he wanted to warn them of their peril. He urged the engineer to put on more steam and get close up, so that they might see their signals.
Already he had hoisted a flag signifying “I want to speak to you,” and Darby was busy fashioning a pair of semaphore flags.
When the flotilla was near enough, Darby went to the steam whistle and opened the valve, giving a long, shrill blast to attract attention; following it with short and long blasts in the Morse code to form the message:
“You are running into danger. Steamer flying German ensign has been laying mines. Trawler sunk. Survivors on board me.”
At the same time, Mark, taking the two flags, climbed upon the wheel-house, and, standing firmly, began to wave them, signalling very rapidly.
For a long time there was no response; but unknown to him, the leading destroyer had flashed its wireless message back to the cruiser. Presently the whole line came to a stop, and Mark saw that the semaphore on the Atreus was at work, questioning him. He answered, telling the whole story of the German mine-layer, and the loss of the What’s Wanted.
Even while he was speaking, the motor-pinnace of the cruiser was launched, and the message came to him:
“If you, the Sea Scout, who are signalling, are one of the survivors, come aboard us immediately. Let your shipmates be taken into Haddisport.”
Mark was not altogether surprised when he saw that the midshipman in charge of the pinnace was his own brother Rodney. They shook hands as he stepped into the stern sheets, but preserved a discreet silence before the men.
Saluting the quarter-deck as they boarded the Atreus, Mark found himself face to face with a group of officers. He advanced towards the commander.
“If you will lend me a chart, sir,” he began, “I will show you exactly the way the mine-layer went. She has been sowing mines all along her track.”
A chart was at once opened on top of the skylight, and with a pencil Mark traced as nearly as he could the Minna von Barnhelm’s course, from the time when he first saw her until she disappeared.
“It was just here where she began laying mines,” he explained, indicating the spot, “about three miles to the east of where we are now. If you keep well to the westward, you will escape them, sir. But I can’t say which way she steered after we lost sight of her.”
“Of course not,” nodded the commander. “You have done very well as it is. I’m tremendously obliged to you for the information.”
He turned to his officers and gave orders for the squadron to proceed at full speed in pursuit, handing the navigation officer the marked chart.
“There’s another thing,” resumed Mark, fumbling in his pocket-book, and producing the strip of paper taken from Darby Catchpole’s pigeon. He explained how he had come by it, adding: “It seems to be written in German shorthand. Perhaps you will take charge of it, sir.”
“Excellent,” smiled the commander. “You have your wits about you, my lad. You have acted with commendable good sense and promptitude. This matter of the mine-field is most important. What is your name?”
“Redisham, sir—Mark Redisham. I am the brother of Midshipman Redisham.”
“Indeed! Oh, then, just see if you can find him, and tell him from me to look after you until I want you again. Tell him he may show you over the ship!”
For a couple of hours or so Mark was in his glory going about the cruiser, examining the engines, the guns, the torpedo-tubes, inquiring into the mechanism of the water-tight doors, visiting the seamen’s quarters, the conning-tower, and even watching the stokers at their grim work.
As they returned to the deck, a petty officer touched Mark’s elbow.
“Captain Damant wishes you to go up to him on the bridge,” he said.
Mark found his way, and climbed up to the commander’s side.
“Take my binoculars and have a look at the steamer yonder,” the commander told him, “and see if you identify her.”
“I can identify her without the binoculars, sir,” returned Mark. “It’s the Minna von Barnhelm.”
“Good,” nodded Captain Damant. “I wanted to be sure. You can go now. Go and make yourself as small as you can in that corner of the conning-tower, and watch our destroyers. Don’t be alarmed at the noise.”
The destroyers were now stretched far in advance of the cruiser, bearing down upon the German in line ahead. Hardly had Mark settled himself in his corner, when the foremost of them fired a shot across the bows of the mine-layer.
The Minna von Barnhelm at once answered from small guns mounted on her upper deck, her shells falling short. Each of the destroyers fired a shot in turn, and every shot got home.
Within a few moments the mine-layer showed the terrible effects of the British guns. Her after-funnel fell over; one of her ventilators followed; her bridge was torn to shreds, and her top works were wrecked.
For a while it seemed to Mark that she was going to be left with this punishment, for the destroyers were continuing on their course, passing her on their port-beam. But presently he saw the immense four-inch guns of the Atreus herself being trained upon her from the forward barbette. Mark held his breath and waited, watching the long steel tubes moving as easily as if they were mere muskets taking aim.
Suddenly from one of them there was a great gush of fire and smoke, a staggering, deafening roar, which shook the whole ship, and a monster lyddite shell struck the Minna von Barnhelm on her quarter, exploding there with terrific violence.
Mark saw the gaping hole which it tore in the steamer’s hull, and he knew that no further shots would be needed. She was sinking by the stern, the men at the same time leaping into the sea.
The British ships, with one accord, converged towards her, and from each of them boats were being launched to pick up the survivors. The Atreus was the nearest, and just as her first boat pushed off the Minna von Barnhelm heeled over, shuddered, and sank in a riot of foam.
Mark and Rodney Redisham stood together at the gangway of the cruiser as the first boatload of survivors were brought on board.
As the last of them came up the ladder, it was seen that he was hardly more than a boy, wearing a fisherman’s guernsey and heavy sea boots. He held up his head unashamed, almost insolently.
“Why, it’s Max!” Rodney Redisham exclaimed.
Max Hilliger stared at the two brothers, a spasm of hatred on his face. He clenched his fist to strike at one of them, when a couple of seamen, with a loaded stretcher, marched in between.
The Germans were at once led below to have their wounds dressed, and to be provided with dry clothing.
“You had better slip down to the petty officers’ mess now, Mark, and get some grub,” Rodney advised. “I will see you later on. We’re going into Haddisport, I believe, so you’ll be put ashore. The destroyers are to be sent off on another job, up north.”
It was two or three hours before they again met. Mark had had dinner, and was sitting chatting with a company of petty officers, when Rodney came to him.
“You’re wanted in the chart-room,” he announced. “Come along!” And as they were passing aft through one of the alley-ways, he added: “Captain Damant has had that pigeon message translated, and it seems to be important. He’s going to ask you something about it.”
Mark followed him up a flight of stairs to the deck.
At that moment there came a low, rumbling sound from under the bows of the Atreus. Then the frightful, ear-splitting crash of an exploding mine. A sheet of flame instantly enveloped the bridge. The vessel’s back seemed to be broken. She listed over to the port side with such a jerk that all who were on deck were flung off their feet. Mark Redisham was pitched bodily over a machine-gun and flung far out into the sea.
He sank down, down into the depths. It seemed an age before he felt himself rising. At length, when he came to the surface, gasping, it was to find the air filled with falling splinters and a dense yellow smoke which almost choked him as he tried to breathe. He saw the doomed cruiser some distance away settling down by the bows.
He looked around him. Most of the debris from the explosion had been of metal and had sunk. But he caught sight of a floating spar. He swam towards it. It was not large enough to support him, but it would help to keep him afloat until the poisonous fumes should clear.
He reached it and stretched forth a hand to grasp it, when another swimmer, coming behind him, shoved him violently aside and seized it.
Mark went under for a moment, rose again with his throat full of sea water, and grabbed the nearer end of the spar. As he did so he saw the other’s face. It was the face of Max Hilliger.
They stared at each other. Both knew that one must yield.
“It’s my life or yours,” said Mark. “Which is it to be?”