Chapter VIII How Mark Made Himself Small
On hearing the gun shot, followed so quickly by the command, “Prepare to dive!” Mark Redisham knew that the strange cruiser he had seen was unquestionably an enemy, firing upon the mine-sweepers.
An electric bell buzzed insistently; some one sang out: “Diving stations!” and there was a scurrying of bare feet along the narrow deck. It was useless now for him to go in search of Lieutenant Ingoldsby’s binoculars. His impulse was to get off the submarine and aboard his own ship as quickly as possible. Yet for an instant he hesitated, lost in the confusion of dark passages and intricate machinery.
A second shot sounded. He turned and scrambled blindly back to the companion-hatch. But here he was stopped. The steep iron ladder was occupied by an officer who was even then screwing down the fastening of the watertight hatch-cover above his head.
“Can’t I get off, sir?” Mark cried desperately. He had no fear, even though already he heard the gurgling of the water in the ballast tanks and knew that the submarine was on the point of being submerged. He clutched at the officer’s naked ankles and repeated his question:
“Can’t I get off, sir—on to my own ship—the Dainty?”
The officer, a sub-lieutenant in working kit, descended to the iron grating at the foot of the ladder.
“Not now,” he answered quietly, as he pressed an electric switch, flooding the whole ship with light. “You must stop where you are. Sit down in that corner. Make yourself small. Don’t touch anything, or you may get a nasty shock.”
He bent down and disappeared through what looked like an oven door in the bulkhead. Mark could see the men hurrying to their posts. Two went forward to the torpedo-tubes, one to each main ballast-tank kingston, one to the hydroplane wheel, another to the motor switches. An engineer took charge of the air-escape vents.
Each kingston being opened and the water rushing in, the boat began to sink. Mark felt an uncomfortable, heaving motion beneath him. He heard the hum of machinery—the whirr of well-oiled wheels, the chunking of pistons and cranks. The Diesel engine was working whilst the conning-tower remained above the surface for the ship to get clear of the trawler alongside. Electric bells trilled their messages from the commander to the men at their various stations.
“Close everything!” he called aloud.
The petrol engine stopped. The ballast tanks were full, and the electric motors now took up the work of sending her along. To Mark Redisham it seemed that she was going round and round in a dizzy circle, already many fathoms deep under the sea. The smell of hot oil and the heaviness of the compressed air stifled him. Yet in his eager interest in all that was happening he would not have exchanged the discomfort for ease, or the possible danger for assured safety.
Suddenly, in answer to a turn of the horizontal rudder, she began to rise. Mark saw the sub-lieutenant crawl swiftly past him to the forward torpedo-chambers. Bending over, and lying on his elbows, he managed to get a sidelong glimpse into the conning-tower with its complicated network of wires, its confusion of switches, handles, levers, and brightly-polished instruments. The commander was there, he knew, although it was only now and again that Mark caught sight of the gold braid on his sleeve as he stretched out his hand to touch some switch or lever.
“Charge firing-tanks; flood torpedo-tubes; stand by to fire!” commanded Lieutenant Ingoldsby.
The periscope was now above the surface and his eyes were upon the image of his target reflected in the mirror. He was taking aim, manoeuvring the submarine into position as if she herself were a gun. For some tense moments all was quiet but for the purr of the motor and the working of the air-compressors for charging the torpedo-tubes. Then there came a thumping sound as of a heavy door being shut. This was repeated. Two torpedoes with their mechanism adjusted had been thrust into the breach of their tubes. Mark would have given much to see how it was done. But he did not dare to move. Obeying the recommendation to make himself small, he waited breathlessly.
“Number one—fire!” came the sharp command.
There was a violent gush as a torpedo was discharged on its errand of destruction. The whole vessel shuddered and was alarmingly unsteady until the compensating-tanks were filled and the true balance was regained. Then a second torpedo was fired. Mark listened, wondering, as the submarine dived with her nose down, if either of her weapons would strike the target at which it had been aimed. They had been fired at long range, but their rush through the water was quickly over. A low, rumbling explosion told that one of them had struck and burst against the German cruiser’s bilge.
The H29 remained deeply submerged, her electric motor driving her forward at ten knots speed for something like a quarter of an hour, when once more the water was blown from the tanks and she rose to bring her periscope above the surface.
The sub-lieutenant was now in the conning-tower with the commander.
“We got her under the forward magazine,” Mark heard Lieutenant Ingoldsby announce. “She’s sinking by the bows. The German collier that we saw yesterday is standing by, picking up survivors. She’s fitted with wireless, so we may as well keep out of sight. Carry on just as we are for another half-hour, Desmond, and shape a course for Haddisport Roads.”
“Yes, sir,” returned Mr. Desmond. “And what about our mine-sweepers?”
“Oh, they are all right!” the commander signified. “I’ve just counted them. I don’t believe any of them was hit. Lucky for them that we turned up. She’d have sunk the lot.”
“We’ve got one of the crew of the Dainty aboard of us, sir,” the sub-lieutenant told him.
“Yes, I know,” nodded the commander; “it’s young Redisham. I sent him below for my binoculars. If you sight his ship, we’ll put him back.”
Mark stood up and saluted him as he came out into the hatchway.
“I hope I’m not very much in your way, sir,” he faltered.
“Not at all,” smiled Mr. Ingoldsby; “although we haven’t much room to spare on a ship like this, as you can see. But don’t stay here in the gangway. Come along with me. Mind you don’t knock your head, and don’t touch any of the switches.”
He led the way through an intricate passage into the engine-room: an open space that could hardly be called a cabin, where men were at work with the electric motors. Here he paused to glance at a gauge.
“You’ve done very well, shipmates,” he said, nodding his approval. “You’ve sent a German cruiser to the bottom—an old ship, it is true; but she’ll do no more mine-laying mischief, and I’m just as pleased with you all as if she had been a Dreadnought. Jardine,” he added, pushing open the door that gave entrance to his cabin. “Shaving water, and then breakfast.”