Part 10 (2/2)

Before the evil-smelling vapour had dispersed the ”Golden Hind,” turning head to wind, was over the spot searching for possible survivors. For half an hour she cruised round, but her efforts to rescue the three Huns were unavailing. The men had either been stunned by the explosion or had been hit by falling wreckage. Amongst them was Unter-Leutnant Hans Leutter, who, by resolutely refusing to leave his command until the rest of the crew were safe, had proved that all Hun officers were not of the von Sinzig type.

Several of the rescued Germans could speak English--but they were decidedly reticent. In the back of their minds they rather feared that they were in for a bad time. They knew that their late kapitan had been practically outlawed and that he was ”wanted” by the authorities for having, amongst other misdemeanours, destroyed the Fremantle aerodrome by means of an incendiary bomb. They rather expected that they would be blamed for the acts of their fugitive superior.

On the other hand, they were grateful to their rescuers for having saved their lives, and with typical Teutonic reasoning they eventually decided that one way to repay the kindness and to ingratiate themselves in the eyes of the Englishman would be to give away their former officers.

The spokesman led off by informing Sir Reginald Fosterd.y.k.e that Unter-Leutnant Hans Leutter was the person who dropped the incendiary bomb from the observation basket in the hope that it would destroy the ”Golden Hind.”

”He was, of course, acting under Count von Sinzig's orders,” remarked Fosterd.y.k.e, drily. ”Where is Herr Leutter?”

”Dead,” was the reply. ”He was one of the three left on Z64.”

”And Count von Sinzig was one of the other two?”

The German airman shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture of disgust. He still rankled over his kapitan's cowardly desertion. It was long obvious to all the survivors of Z64 that von Sinzig had no intention of summoning aid. Eight hours had elapsed since he began his flight in the Albatross. In that time he must have sighted several vessels, since the scene of the disaster was not many miles from one of the great Atlantic trade routes.

”Kapitan Count von Sinzig left Z64 soon after daybreak this morning, mein Herr,” replied the German. ”At seven o'clock, to be exact.”

”Left--how?” demanded Fosterd.y.k.e, sharply.

”In an Albatross monoplane. He was last seen going east-north-east.”

Fosterd.y.k.e dismissed his informant and turned to Kenyon and Bramsdean.

”The cunning old rascal!” he exclaimed. ”I see his little game now. He's completing the final stage by aeroplane. I suppose by this time he's won the Chauva.s.se Prize; but I don't envy him.”

”Will you enter a protest, sir?” asked Peter.

”Protest? Not much,” replied the baronet, emphatically. ”These seventeen Huns can do the protesting if they want to, and I rather fancy they will.”

”There's many a slip,” quoted Kenyon. ”He may not complete the course after all.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

--A DUMPING OPERATION.

The heavily-laden ”Golden Hind” resumed her delayed journey. Both gas-bags and planes had to do their full share of work to keep the airs.h.i.+p afloat. She was flying low, but making good progress; but so little was her reserve of buoyancy that had the three Huns who perished in the catastrophe to Z64 been saved, it was doubtful whether Fosterd.y.k.e could have ”carried on.”

To make matters worse, some of the patches on the repaired ballonets were leaking, for owing to the heat of the rubber the solution was not holding well.

”I wonder if Drake's 'Golden Hind,' when she arrived in the Thames after circ.u.mnavigating the globe, was patched up like we are,” remarked Kenyon. ”It took Drake three long years to do the trick, and we look like completing our voyage in under seventeen days.”

”If the old 'bus holds out,” added Bramsdean. ”'Tany rate, no one can say we haven't done our bit. The 'Golden Hind's' been a regular sort of aerial lifeboat. That is some satisfaction. I'd rather we did that than win the race.”

”I suppose our pa.s.sengers won't get up to any of their Hunnish tricks?” observed Kenneth.

”Trust Fosterd.y.k.e for that,” replied Peter grimly. ”He's had 'em placed in the dining-saloon. (Fortunately, we won't require many more meals.) They can amuse themselves there without getting into mischief. There's one of our fellows stationed outside to keep the blighters in order.”

Just then the baronet came upon the scene.

”Von Sinzig looks like pulling it off,” he observed. ”A wireless from the S.S. Wontwash reports that a monoplane pa.s.sed over the s.h.i.+p at 6 P.M., flying east. According to the position given, the Wontwash was only thirty-five miles west of Gibraltar.”

”Then perhaps he's back at his hangar by this time,” commented Peter. ”Any news of the others?”

”Yes; Commodore Theodore Nye has been unable to get hold of another 'bus yet, although two of the Australian R.A.F. pilots are bringing him a 'Bristol' machine from Melbourne. He's out of the running. That he admits, but he means to complete the course, even if it takes him six months.”

”And the j.a.p?” asked Kenyon.

”Not a word,” replied the baronet. ”He's keeping quiet; but mark my words, that quadruplane will turn up unexpectedly. If his 'bus had had British motors, he would have romped home in less than a week.”

”What engines has he?” asked Bramsdean.

”j.a.panese,” replied Fosterd.y.k.e. ”Pa.s.sable imitations of ours and good up to a certain point; but give me British engines all the jolly old time.”

Although the baronet made frequent enquiries of the operator, no wireless messages concerning von Sinzig came through.

”Perhaps he's crashed,” suggested Peter.

”Not he,” replied Kenyon. ”That Hun's got the luck of a cat with nine lives. He's playing his own game.”

”It is a game,” added Bramsdean. ”Loading that crowd of Huns on to us is like a man in a mile race chucking his gear to another compet.i.tor and telling him to hang on. I don't wish the blighter any harm, but I do hope that if he pulls off the money prize they'll pay him in German marks at the pre-war rate of exchange. That'd make him look blue!”

Although no news came in concerning their Hun rival, the officers and crew of the ”Golden Hind” began to be bombarded with wireless messages from Britons in every quarter of the globe. All were of the most encouraging nature, for the story of Fosterd.y.k.e's airs.h.i.+p and her adventures and misadventures--all more or less distorted owing to the lack of authentic detail--had awakened world-wide interest.

There were cheery messages from patriotic Britons; incentive ones from sportsmen, to whom the suggestion of a race appealed more than did the fact that the contest was one of endurance calculated to uphold the prestige of British flying men. Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Norwegians, Americans, and j.a.panese all sent greetings to the intrepid British airmen.

”Didn't know we had so many friends,” remarked Fosterd.y.k.e. ”Sportsmanlike of those Americans and j.a.ps, too, when they have representatives in the show.”

The ”Golden Hind” was now approaching the regular mail line, where routes to and from the Cape and round the Horn unite in the neighbourhood of Las Palmas.

”We'll signal the first vessel we sight,” decided Sir Reginald, ”and get her to relieve us of our cargo of Fritzes. The sooner the better, because several of the ballonets are showing distinct symptoms of porosity.”

Five minutes later the airs.h.i.+p had slowed down and had swung round on a course parallel to a homeward-bound Dutchman.

The skipper of the latter, when appealed to by megaphone, stoutly refused to receive the seventeen Germans. He gave no reason why he should not do so, and without waiting for further parley rang for full speed ahead.

A little later a French auxiliary barque was sighted, bound south.

Fosterd.y.k.e made no attempt to intercept her.

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