Part 4 (1/2)

Guessing that something was amiss, he hailed the bowman. The latter, scrambling aft, steadied the vessel on her helm, at the same time ordering the motors to be eased down. He was convinced that Stickleton had been jerked overboard and was swimming for dear life a couple of miles astern.

By this time the _Calder_ bore almost due west, at a distance of six sea miles, for the patrol-boat had described a complete semicircle. For some time the boat searched in vain for her missing skipper, until the c.o.xswain suggested returning to Yarmouth to report the casualty.

”Better get back to the destroyer, George,” counselled another of the crew. ”Maybe they've got our skipper. Anyway, there'll be no harm done.”

Somewhat diffidently, George up-helmed and ordered full speed ahead.

He, like the rest of the crew, was, before the war, a paid hand in a racing yacht; keen, alert, and a thorough seaman, but unused to a powerfully-engined boat. Ask him to bring a sailing-boat alongside in half a gale of wind, he would have complied with the utmost skill, luffing at the exact moment and allowing the craft to lose way with her canvas slatting in the breeze without the loss of a square inch of paint. Bringing a ”match-box crammed chock-a-block with machinery”

alongside was a totally different matter; but, as it had to be done, George clenched his teeth and gripped the spokes of the wheel, determined to die like a true Briton.

The patrol-boat had covered but half of the distance back to the _Calder_ when she almost leapt clear of the water. The two deck-hands for'ard were thrown flat, and, sliding over the slippery planks, brought up against the low stanchion rails. A slight shock, barely perceptible above the pulsations of the motors, and the little packet dipped her nose under to the water, shook herself clear, and resumed her mad pelt.

”What's up, George?” sang out the mate.

”Dunno,” replied the c.o.xswain. ”Guess we've b.u.mped agen' summat.”

Then, the dread possibility that he had run dawn his own skipper entering his mind, he decided to return and investigate.

Having had but little experience in the use of the reversing-gear, George slammed the lever hard-to. With a sickening jerk, as if the little craft were parting amids.h.i.+ps, the patrol-boat stopped and gathered sternway. A minute later she backed over a large and ever-increasing pool of iridescent oil, through which air-bubbles were forcing their way.

”By Jupiter!” exclaimed one of the crew; ”blest if we haven't rammed a strafed U boat.”

The man had spoken truly. A German submarine, acting independently of the raiding-squadron, had sighted the _Calder_, hove-to, at a distance of three miles. Unaware of the presence of the patrol-boat--and the sight of a patrol-boat or a trawler usually gives the German unterseebooten a bad attack of the blues--her kapitan had taken a preliminary bearing prior to submerging in order to get within effective torpedo range. Having judged himself to have gained the required position, the Hun ordered the boat to be again brought to the surface.

At the critical moment he heard the thud of the propellers of the swiftly-moving patrol-boat. He attempted to dive, but too late. The sharp steel stem of the little craft, moving through the water at the rate of a railway train, nicked the top of the U boat's conning-tower sufficiently to penetrate the plating. Before steps could be taken to stop the inrush of water the U boat was doomed. Sinking slowly to the bottom, she filled, the heavy oil from her motors finding its way to the surface in an aureole of iridescent colours to mark her last resting-place.

George, seaman first, and fighting-man next, gave little thought to his involuntary act. The safety of his temporary command came foremost.

”Nip down below and see if she's started a seam,” he ordered.

The men, who had been ejected from their quarters by the concussion, hurried to the fore-peak. As they opened the cuddy-hatch the half-dozen terrified German prisoners made a wild scramble to gain the deck.

”Who told you blighters to come out?” shouted George, and, abandoning the wheel, he rushed forward, seized the foremost Hun by the scruff of the neck and hurled him violently against the next man. The floor of the fore-peak was covered with a squirming heap of now thoroughly cowed Huns, to whom the apparition of the stalwart, angry Englishman was more to be dreaded than being shaken like peas in a pod in the dark recesses of their temporary prison quarter.

”Is she making anything?” enquired George anxiously, as he returned to take charge of the helm.

”Hardly a trickle,” was the rea.s.suring reply. ”Whack her up, mate.”

The c.o.xwain proceeded to order full speed ahead, and the little craft tore back to the _Calder_ in order that the news of her skipper's disappearance might be reported.

To the surprise of the patrol-boat's crew they discovered their sub, arrayed in borrowed garments, standing aft and motioning to the boat to come alongside.

It was easier said than done. The c.o.xwain's faith in his capabilities was weak, notwithstanding his resolution. At the first shot he carried too much way, reversing engines when the little craft was fifty yards ahead of the destroyer. The second attempt found him a like distance short, with no way on the boat. At the third he dexterously caught a coil of rope hurled from the _Calder_, and succeeded in hauling alongside.

”We've just rammed a submarine, sir,” reported the c.o.xwain, saluting, delivering the information in a matter-of-fact manner, as if destroying enemy craft in this fas.h.i.+on were an everyday occurrence.

Sub-lieutenant Stickleton having regained his command, the motor-boat piloted the _Calder_ to the scene of her exploit. A diver descended in nine fathoms, and quickly telephoned the confirmatory information that a U boat was lying with a list to starboard on the sand, with a rent in her conning-tower--the indirect result of the involuntary bathe of Sub-lieutenant Stickleton, R.N.R.

CHAPTER V--Sefton to the Rescue