Chapter IX An Expert in Mine-Sweeping
Mark took up his stand in the only corner he could see where there was no machinery, and feasted his curious eyes on everything within their range—the hammocks slung from the steel cross-beams, the safety-helmets hanging near, the controls of a multitude of electrical devices, the wheels governing the rudders, and the great array of enclosed cylinders and accumulators.
At the far end was an electric cooking apparatus at which the cook had already resumed his interrupted work of preparing the officers’ breakfast. From a small boiler, Jardine filled a silver jug with hot water, which he carried into the commander’s cabin.
On his return, Jardine went up to Mark and said: “The commander wants you.”
Mark was shown into the state-room and was surprised to find it so large and comfortable. Lieutenant Ingoldsby stood before a tiny dressing-table, lathering his face.
“Have you seen my aunt lately, Mark?” he questioned. “Is she nervous, living alone there on the cliff?”
“I saw her the night before we sailed,” Mark answered. “She came in to bid good-bye to father. Yes, sir, I believe she is a bit nervous. She thinks there’s sure to be an invasion, and that a whole army of Germans will come over in Zeppelins and flat-bottomed boats, guarded by submarines and Dreadnoughts. She said something about going inland to Bath or Buxton.”
“Not very complimentary to the British Navy, eh?” laughed Mr. Ingoldsby, stropping his razor. “I hope Major Redisham reassured her. Tell me something about this mine-sweeping business, will you? The Admiralty don’t seem to be altogether satisfied with the process. Too many precious lives are being sacrificed.”
Mark described his work and told of the difficulties and dangers of dealing with contact-mines.
“The worst part of it is when we come bow-on to one of them,” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I don’t know if there’s anything in my idea, but it seems to me that the sweepers ought to be fitted with some sort of protective net in front, to ward off the mines, or even to pick them up—something like the cow-catcher on an American locomotive, you know.”
Lieutenant Ingoldsby turned round sharply in the middle of shaving his left cheek.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “Very good. You’ve certainly hit upon the right notion, if you think it can be worked—and at once.”
“It ought to be quite easy,” Mark averred. “Just a steel-wire net in the shape of a fan, hinged from the trawler’s cutwater and supported from pulleys at the end of beams shoved out like catheads over the bows. It would be lowered in front of her, below her water-line, to scoop up the mines, or drive them aside. There’d be scores of lives saved, sir.”
“So I should think,” assented the commander, proceeding with his shaving. “You ought to make a working model of the contrivance and submit it to the authorities. They’re almost sure to adopt it, recognising you as a kind of expert on mine-sweeping. And now, there’s something else I want to ask you. What has become of Heinrich Hilliger and his son, do you know? I have heard of your raid on the pigeon-loft at Sunnydene, and of the maps and charts that you found, and failed to bring away with you.’
“Max was drowned when the Atreus was mined,” Mark explained. “And his father is believed to have gone back to Germany.”
“Then whom do you suspect of having taken off the charts and things?” pursued Lieutenant Ingoldsby.
Mark could not explain this mystery. It had puzzled him ever since the night of its occurrence.
“You will be doing a service to your country,” said the officer, “if you make a point of finding out exactly where those two are, and what they are doing. For my own part, I don’t believe for a moment that Max Hilliger was drowned, or that his father has gone home to Germany. They are alien enemies, you know, and it is not to be wondered at if they are still in England—still even in Haddisport—working their level best to bring about the downfall of Great Britain.”
Mark pondered over this recommendation while he was at breakfast in the engine-room, and resolved to make some investigations during his time of leave on shore. He also gave some thought to his invention for picking up explosive mines.
While he was drawing a plan of it, Lieutenant Ingoldsby, again at his post in the conning-tower, called out the command:
“Diving stations!”
The H29 was once more submerged. There was a cloud of smoke on the horizon which might be from the funnels of an enemy cruiser. Seen afterwards in the periscope mirror, however, the stranger turned out to be a British liner. The ballast tanks were blown out, and the submarine rose awash. The electric motor had stopped and the petrol engine had not yet been set in motion. Instead of the telegraph signifying “go ahead!” there came an ominous rasping sound from the neighbourhood of the forward torpedo-chamber. Something was wrong!
“Sounds as if we’d fouled some wreckage,” conjectured the chief engineer, standing by his cranks and levers with his eye on the dial.
Mark Redisham was astonished to hear his name called from the conning-tower. He followed three of the men who also had been summoned. When he came out into the open air he discovered Mr. Ingoldsby and Mr. Desmond standing together looking forward along the narrow strip of deck to where a great round shape lay jammed between the hydroplane and its guard.
“It’s a German mine!” cried Mark. “Don’t let it be moved, sir. Wait! Keep the engines stopped! You’ve fouled its mooring; but it won’t go off—it won’t explode—unless one of the horns gets broken or bent.”
“That’s what I judged,” nodded Lieutenant Ingoldsby, looking very grim. “But how is the thing to be cleared away if we don’t move it? You know the tricks of these things. What do you advise?”
“Wait a bit, sir,” urged Mark. He stooped and quickly took off his boots and stockings. “Let me go along and have a close look at it.”
“No, I can’t let you,” objected the commander. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Then let one of the men come with me, sir,” Mark suggested, not at all alarmed.
Before he could be stopped, he had slipped past the men and was making his way along the wet and slippery platform. Mr. Desmond, also in bare feet, went after him. They reached the place where the mine was lodged. The horns of the deadly machine were fortunately all pointed outward. The mooring line of flexible wire rope had been caught as the submarine rose to the surface and was securely fixed in the hydroplane bearings, held by its own weight and the weight of the sinker.
Mark went down on his hands and knees and examined the thing most carefully, seeing exactly how it was held, calculating how it would fall when released, estimating how it would be kept in position while the mooring-line was being severed. All his scout-craft was exercised. He looked round at the sub-lieutenant.
“We shall manage all right, sir,” he declared calmly. “We want a couple of hammocks to pack round the base of the mine for a fender, a strong man with a crowbar to hold it from slipping, while another with a sharp file and a pair of pliers cuts through the mooring warp. When it’s cut, you submerge the ship a couple of feet, let go, and the mine will float off. Then the gunner can fire at it and explode it. Do you understand, sir? Excuse my making these suggestions; but I’ve had a lot to do with handling explosive contact-mines during the last week.”
His directions were followed in every detail. In half an hour the work was done without mishap, and the submarine and her crew were saved. The mine, released from its sinker, floated with its rounded top and horns above the surface. The ship stood off, her fourteen-pounder quick-firing gun was raised from its chamber, and the gunner’s skill brought about the explosion.
Late in the afternoon of that same day the H29 appeared abreast of Alderwick Knoll. Darby Catchpole saw her from the cliff. Watching her through his telescope, he made out that the flag flying from her mast bore the sign of the skull and crossbones, and by this he knew that she had been in action and had come out victorious.