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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 39489
   :PG.Title: With Beatty off Jutland
   :PG.Released: 2012-04-19
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Percy F. Westerman
   :MARCREL.ill: Frank Gillett
   :DC.Title: With Beatty off Jutland
              A Romance of the Great Sea Fight
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1918
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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WITH BEATTY OFF JUTLAND
=======================

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   Cover art

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.. _`"'CAN YOU SPARE US ANY TORPEDOES?' SHOUTED SEFTON"`:

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   :alt: "'CAN YOU SPARE US ANY TORPEDOES?' SHOUTED SEFTON"

   "'CAN YOU SPARE US ANY TORPEDOES?' SHOUTED SEFTON"

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   With Beatty off Jutland

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   A Romance of the Great Sea Fight

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   by

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   PERCY F. WESTERMAN

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   Author of "The Submarine Hunters"
   "A Sub and a Submarine"
   "The Dispatch Riders"
   &c. &c.

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  *Illustrated by Frank Gillett, R.I.*

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   BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
   LONDON AND GLASGOW
   1920

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   By Percy F. Westerman

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   Rivals of the Reef.
   A Shanghai Adventure.
   Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
   The Junior Cadet.
   Captain Starlight.
   The Sea-Girt Fortress.
   On the Wings of the Wind.
   Captured at Tripoli.
   Captain Blundell's Treasure.
   The Third Officer.
   Unconquered Wings.
   The Buccaneers of Boya.
   The Riddle of the Air.
   Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
   The Luck of the "Golden Dawn".
   Clipped Wings.
   The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
   Winning his Wings.
   A Lively Bit of the Front.
   A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
   The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
   East in the "Golden Gain".
   The Quest of the "Golden Hope".
   Sea Scouts Abroad.
   Sea Scouts Up-Channel.
   The Wireless Officer.
   A Lad of Grit.
   The Submarine Hunters.
   Sea Scouts All.
   The Thick of the Fray,
   A Sub and a Submarine.
   Under the White Ensign.
   The Fight for Constantinople.
   With Beatty off Jutland.

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   *Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow*

----

.. contents:: CONTENTS
   :depth: 1
   :backlinks: entry

----

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Illustrations

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`"'Can you spare us any torpedoes?' shouted Sefton"`_ . . . *Frontispiece*
`"'We surrender make....  We haf a leak sprung'"`_
`"Without hesitation Sefton made a flying leap over the guard rails"`_
`"Poising himself for an instant, Sefton leapt on the 'Calder's' deck"`_
`"She sent a huge shell at point-blank range crashing into the light-built hull"`_
`"The 'Calder' had played her part, and it seemed base ingratitude to leave her to founder"`_

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WITH BEATTY OFF JUTLAND

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CHAPTER I--The Ward-room of H.M.S. "Calder"
===========================================

A cold grey morning in April somewhere in the
North Sea; to be more exact, 18 miles N. 75° W. of
the Haisborough Lightship.

Viewed from the fore-bridge of H.M. torpedo-boat
destroyer *Calder*, there was little in the
outlook to suggest that a state of war had existed for
twenty months.  The same short steep seas, the
same lowering sky, the almost unbroken horizon
towards which many anxious glances were hourly
directed in the hope that "they" had at last come out.

Two cables' distance from the *Calder*, a typical
trawler, with dense columns of smoke issuing from
her funnel, was forging slowly ahead.  Another
vessel of a similar type was steaming in almost the
opposite direction, and on a course that would bring
her close under the stern of the almost motionless
destroyer.  From the galley funnel of each trawler
a trail of bluish smoke was issuing, the reek as it
drifted across the *Calder's* deck indicating pretty
plainly the nature of the "hands'" breakfast.  Of
the crew of either craft no one was visible, the
helmsman in each case sheltering in the ugly squat
wheel-house on the bridge.

Acting Sub-lieutenant Sefton brought his
binoculars to bear upon the nearmost trawler.  The
action was merely a perfunctory one.  He knew
both trawlers almost about as much as their own
crews did, and certainly more than their respective
owners in pre-war times.  For close on fifty hours,
watch in and watch out, the *Calder* had been dancing
attendance on these two almost insignificant
specimens of the North Sea fishing-fleet--the *Carse o'
Gowrie* and the *Dimpled Lassie*, both registered at
the port of Aberdeen.

Carrying bare steerage-way, the destroyer glided
slowly past the *Dimpled Lassie's* port quarter.
From the trawler's stern a flexible wire hawser led
beneath the foaming wake of the propeller, dipping
with a sag that did not gladden the heart of the
young officer of the watch.

"Any luck yet?" shouted Sefton through an
enormous megaphone.

At the hail two men's heads appeared above the
bulwarks aft, while a greatcoated figure came in
view from behind the storm-dodgers of the trawler's
bridge.

"Not the least, sir," replied the master of the
*Dimpled Lassie*, Peter M'Kie, skipper R.N.R.
"Are we right, sir?"

The acting-sub had a few minutes previously
taken an observation.  The destroyer was playing
the part of nursemaid to the two trawlers, for
although both skippers could find their way, even
in thick weather, almost anywhere in the North
Sea, solely by the aid of lead-line and compass,
neither had the faintest experience in the use of
the sextant.

"Ought to be right over it," replied Sefton.
"Carry on, and trust to luck."

The trawlers were "creeping" with grapnels.
Not for mines, although there was always a possibility
of hooking one of those fiendish contrivances.
That was a risk that the tough fisherman faced with
an equanimity bordering on fatalism.  Mine-sweeping
they had engaged upon almost continuously
since the notable month of August, 1914.  Now
they were on particular service--a service of such
importance and where so much secrecy was imperative
that these two Scottish trawlers had been sent
expressly from a northern base to scour the bed of
the North Sea in the neighbourhood of Great
Yarmouth, where there were Government craft for
disposal in abundance.

Sefton replaced his binoculars, and, turning,
found that his superior officer had just come on
deck and was standing at his elbow.

Lieutenant Richard Crosthwaite, D.S.O., the
"owner" of the destroyer, was one of those young
officers who had made good use of the chances that
the war had thrown in his way.  Specially promoted
for good work in the Dardanelles, he found
himself at a comparatively early age in command of a
destroyer that had already made a name for herself
in the gallant but ill-starred operations against the
Turks.

"Well, Mr. Sefton?" he asked.

"Nothing much to report, sir," replied the acting-sub.
"But we'll get it yet," he added confidently.

Evidently "it"--hardly ever referred to by any
other designation--was more elusive than
Crosthwaite had imagined.  A shade of disappointment
flitted across his tanned features.  The task upon
which the trawlers were engaged was a matter of
extreme urgency.  At Whitehall anxious admirals
awaited the news that "it" had been fished up; but
"it", reposing serenely on the bed of the North
Sea, had resolutely declined to receive the embraces
of a couple of heavy grapnels.

Crosthwaite, after giving a searching glance to
windward, stepped to the head of the ladder.  An
alert bos'n's mate, awaiting the signal, piped the
starboard watch.  Saluting, Sefton gained the deck
and went aft, his mind dwelling on the prospects
of breakfast and a much-needed sleep.

The ward-room, a scantily-furnished apartment
extending the whole width of the ship, was showing
signs of activity.  From one of the adjoining
dog-boxes, termed by courtesy a cabin, a short,
full-faced, jovial-featured man had just emerged, clad in
regulation trousers and a sweater.  His curly
light-brown hair was still wet, as the result of his
ablutions, a slight gash upon the point of his chin
betokened the fact that he had tempted fate by
shaving in a stiff seaway, and by the aid of an
ordinary razor dulled by the penetrating salt air.

"Oh, it's quiet down here----" he began singing
in a ringing baritone.

"No need to rub that in, Pills," exclaimed a
drawling voice.  "The fact is patent to all.  Can't
you give us 'They don't run Corridor Cars on
our Branch Line' by way of a change?"

Thereon hung a tale: something that took place
when Jimmy Stirling first joined the mess at the
Portsmouth Naval Barracks as a Probationary
Surgeon, R.N.V.R.

"I called attention to the fact that it was quiet
down here with deliberate intent, my festive
Box-spanner," retorted the surgeon.  "At last, after
weeks of expostulation, your minions have
succeeded in quelling that demon of unrest, the steam
steering-gear.  For the first time for a fortnight I
have slept serenely, and, thanks to that blessed
balm, I feel like a giant refreshed.  Now, how
about it?"

He made a dive into the adjoining cabin, where
the engineer-lieutenant was in the act of struggling
with a refractory collar.  The next instant the two
men lurched into the ward-room engaged in what
looked to be a mortal struggle.

Cannoning off the stove, sweeping a sheaf of
books from the wall, glissading from the cushioned
lockers, the high-spirited officers tackled each other
with mock-serious desperation until, with a violent
heave, the athletic doctor deposited his engineering
confrère fairly upon the table.  With a series of
crashes, cups, saucers, tureens, teapot, coffee-pot,
eggs and bacon sidled in an indescribable state of
chaos upon the floor.

"Time!" exclaimed Sefton authoritatively.
"Look here, you fellows.  I haven't had my
breakfast, and I suppose you haven't had yours?
Not that it matters to me.  And, Pills, has your
supply of bromide run out?"

The combatants separated and began taking
stock of the damage.

"You logged a gale of wind last night, I hope,
Sefton?" asked the engineer-lieutenant in tones of
mock anxiety.  "Must account for this smash-up,
you know----  Any luck?  Have they got it?"

The acting-sub, now that conversation had
reverted to the inevitable "it", was bound to
admit that the preceding night's labours had been
fruitless.  The possibilities of the recovery of the
much-desired "it" monopolized the attention of
the occupants of the ward-room until the steward,
outwardly stolidly indifferent to the unsympathetic
treatment of his labours, provided another repast.

They were boyish and high-spirited officers on
H.M.T.B.D. *Calder*.  Their pranks were but an
antidote to the ceaseless strain of days and nights
of watch and ward.

"To get back to things mundane," persisted the
engineer-lieutenant as the trio sat down to their
belated meal, "will they find it?"

"It is my firm belief that they will," replied
Sefton decisively.  "Even if we have to mark time
about here for another month."

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated the surgeon piously,
"I pine for fresh water.  Your vile condenser-brewed
fluid is simply appalling, my festive Box-spanner.
And I yearn for newspapers less than a week old."

The engineer-lieutenant glared defiance at his
medical confrère.  He knew perfectly well that the
water on board was brackish and insipid, but it was
condensed under his personal supervision.  Any
disparaging remarks upon his *métier*--even if
uttered in jest--touched him to the quick.

A resumption of the "scrap" seemed imminent,
when a bluejacket, tapping at the ward-room door,
announced: "Captain's compliments, sir; they've
just hooked it."




CHAPTER II--The Recovered Cable
===============================

Instantly there was a wild scramble on the part
of the three officers to gain the deck, all other
topics of interest vanishing before the all-important
information.

A cable's length on the port beam the *Carse o'
Gowrie* was backing gently astern in order to close
with her consort.  The *Dimpled Lassie* was
pitching sluggishly.  Way had been taken off her,
while over her squat counter the wire hawser
attached to the Lucas grapnel was "straight up
and down" under the steady strain of some heavy
and still submerged object.

From the destroyer's bridge a signalman was
semaphoring rapidly by means of hand-flags.  The
*Dimpled Lassie* replied.  The man had just finished
delivering the message to Lieutenant-Commander
Crosthwaite when Sefton and the other officers
gained the bridge.

"There's no doubt about it now," declared Crosthwaite
breezily.  "They've just reported that the
thing is two fathoms off the bottom.  The *Carse o'
Gowrie* is going to help take the strain."

"Hope it won't carry away, sir," remarked Sefton.

"Never fear!  Where the patent grapnel grips,
it holds.  What water have we?"

A cast with the lead gave 19 fathoms, the tide
having risen 7 feet.  The tidal current was setting
south-east a half east, with a velocity of 1-½ knots.

"Tide'll be slacking in half an hour," said the
skipper.  "The less strain we get the better.
Signalman!"

"Sir?"

"Ask the *Dimpled Lassie* to report the state of
the dynometer."

Promptly came the reply that already the strain
on the grapnel hawser was 2-½ tons.

"And the breaking strain is four, sir," Sefton
reminded his chief.

"We'll get it all right," reiterated Crosthwaite.
"Never fear."

His optimism was justified when forty-five
minutes later the grapnel sullenly bobbed above
the surface, holding in its tightly-closed jaws the
bight of a large submarine electric cable.

"Let's hope we've hooked the right one,"
muttered the engineer-lieutenant.

"You atom of despondency!" exclaimed Stirling.

"I state a possibility, not a probability, Pills,"
rejoined Boxspanner.  "It's a three-to-one chance,
you know."

Already a number of artificers, who had been
temporarily detailed for duty on board each of the
trawlers, were hard at work in connection with the
retrieved cable.  What they were doing in
connection must remain a matter of conjecture, but the
fact was patent that the success or otherwise of
unremitting toil depended upon the next few minutes.

Impatiently the young lieutenant-commander of
the *Calder* awaited a further signal announcing the
result of the investigations.  When it came it was
highly satisfactory.

"Thanks be for small mercies!" ejaculated
Crosthwaite fervently.  "Signal M'Kie and tell him to
take due precautions in case a ground swell sets in
from the east'ard."

The cable was one of three that in pre-war time
connected the little Norfolk fishing-village of
Bacton with the German island of Borkum.  Two
more ran from Borkum to Lowestoft, the whole
system being partly British and partly German
controlled.

Immediately upon the declaration of war the
telegraph cables had been severed, both in the
neighbourhood of the British coast and in the
vicinity of the German island fortress.  To all
intents and purposes it seemed as if the cables were
nothing more than useless cores of copper encased
in gutta-percha, rotting in the ooze on the bed of
the North Sea.

Yet in spite of the most stringent precautions on
the part of the British Government to prevent a
leakage of news, the disconcerting fact remained
that, thanks to an efficient and extensive espionage
system, information, especially relating to the
movements of the Grand Fleet, did reach Germany.

Various illicit means of communication were
suspected by the authorities, and drastic, though none
the less highly necessary, regulations were put into
force that had the effect of reducing the leakage to
a minimum.

Simultaneously a campaign was opened against
the use of wireless installations.  Undoubtedly
wireless played its part in the spies' work, but its
efficacy was doubtful.  It could be "tapped"; its
source of agency could be located.  However
beneficial in times of peace, it was a two-edged weapon
in war.

For a long time the British Government failed to
unravel the secret, until it was suggested that the
submarine cables had been repaired.  And this
was precisely what had been done.  The Huns had
promptly repaired their end of one of the
Bacton-Borkum lines, while a German trawler, disguised
as a Dutch fishing-boat, had grappled the severed
end just beyond the British three-mile limit.

To the recovered end was fixed a light
india-rubber-covered cable.  This would be sufficiently
strong to outlast the duration of the war, the
scarcity of gutta-percha and the enormous weight
of the finished cable being prohibitive.  It was
paid out from the trawler with considerable rapidity,
the end being buoyed and dropped overboard some
miles from the spot where the original cable used
to land.  In the inky blackness of a dark winter's
night a boat manned by German agents disguised
as British fishermen succeeded in recovering the
light cable and taking it ashore.  Here it was a
brief and simple matter to carry the line to a
cottage on the edge of the low cliff, burying the land
portion in the sand.

For nearly eighteen months the secret wireless
station had been in active operation.  News culled
from all the naval bases by trustworthy German
agents was surreptitiously communicated to the
operators in the little unsuspected Norfolk cottage
and thence telegraphed to Borkum.

For the task of recovering the cable the utmost
skill, caution, and discretion were necessary.  The
vessels detailed for the work were sent from a
far-off Scottish port with orders to make no
communication with the shore; while to protect them from
possible interference the *Calder* had been detached
from the rest of the flotilla to stand by and direct
operations.

The *Dimpled Lassie* was indeed fortunate in
finding the cable in a comparatively short space of
time, and, what was more to the point, in locating
the right one of the three known to be in close
proximity.  Contrast this performance with that of
the cruiser *Huascar* in the Chilean-Peruvian War.
That vessel tried for two days in shallow water to
sever the cable at Valparaiso.  The officer in charge
had himself assisted to lay that particular cable,
but picked up the one communicating with Iquique
and severed that by mistake.

The only "fly in the ointment", as far as
Lieutenant-Commander Crosthwaite was concerned, was
the anticipated fact that the *Calder* would have to
dance attendance upon the trawlers for an indefinite
period.  Once the mild excitement of grappling for
the cable was over, the *Calder* was in the position
of those who "serve who only stand and wait".
It was a necessary task to "stand by", but with
vague rumours in the air of naval activity on the
part of the Huns, the officers and crew of the
destroyer would infinitely have preferred to be in the
thick of it, rather than detained within a few miles
of the Norfolk and Suffolk coast.

When at length interest in the proceeding had
somewhat abated, Sub-lieutenant Sefton went below
to make up long arrears of sleep.

He had not turned in many minutes when Doctor
Stirling gave him a resounding whack on the back.

"Wake up, you lazy bounder!" exclaimed the
surgeon.  "Didn't you hear 'Action Stations'?
We've got the whole German fleet coming for us."




CHAPTER III--The Stranded Submarine
===================================

"No such luck," protested Sefton, until, reading
the serious look in the medical officer's eyes, and
now conscious of a commotion on deck as the
ship's company went to action stations, he started
up, leapt from his bunk, and hurriedly scrambled
into his clothes.

Upon gaining the deck Sefton found that Stirling
had exaggerated the facts--he generally did, as a
matter of fact.  Just looming through the light
haze were half a dozen large grey forms emitting
tell-tale columns of smoke; for, combined with the
lack of Welsh steam coal and inferior stoking, the
Huns generally managed to betray their whereabouts
by volumes of black vapour from their funnels.

The ships were now steaming in double column,
line ahead, and, having left Smith's Knoll well on
the starboard hand, were running on a southerly
course to clear Winterton Ridge.

"Off to Yarmouth, I'll swear," declared
Crosthwaite.  "The bounders have got wind of the
fact that our battle-cruisers are well up north."

The *Calder* was now approaching the two
trawlers.  Grasping a megaphone, the lieutenant-commander
hailed the skipper of the *Carse o' Gowrie*.

"German battle-cruisers in sight," he shouted.
"You had better slip and clear out."

The tough old Scot shaded his eyes with a hairy,
tanned hand and looked in the direction of the hostile craft.

"I'll bide here, if ye have nae objection, sir," he
replied.  "After all this fuss, fetchin' the cable an'
all, I'm nae keen on dropping it agen.  Maybe
they'll tak no notice of us, thinking we're fisherfolk."

"The probability is that they'll sink you," said
Crosthwaite, secretly gratified at the old man's
bravery, and yet unwilling to have to leave the
trawlers to their fate.

"If they do, they do," replied the skipper
unmoved.  "It wouldna be the first by many a one.
But sin' we hae the cable, here we bide."

Old Peter M'Kie was of a similar opinion.  Sink
or swim, he meant to stand by.  The *Carse o'
Gowrie* and the *Dimpled Lassie* were to remain
with the fished cable, since it was just possible
that the Germans might take them for ordinary
trawlers, as the boats showed no guns.

The lieutenant-commander of the destroyer saw
that it was of no use to attempt to shake the
resolution of the two skippers.  After all, they stood a
chance.  By remaining quietly, and riding to the
raised cable, they certainly had the appearance of
fishing boats using their trawl, while any attempts
at flight might result in unpleasant attentions from
the number of torpedo-boats accompanying the
German battle-cruisers.

Accordingly the *Calder* slipped quietly away,
keeping under the lee of the Haisborough Sands
to avoid being spotted by the enemy vessels.  It
was a genuine case of discretion being the better
part of valour.  Although not a man of her crew
would have blenched had orders been given to
steam full speed ahead towards the huge German
battle-cruisers, Crosthwaite realized that such a
step would be utterly useless.  Long before the
destroyer could get within torpedo-range of the foe,
she would be swept clean and sent to the bottom
under the concentrated fire of fifty or more
quick-firers.  Had it been night or thick weather the
*Calder* would no doubt have attempted to get home
with her 21-inch torpedoes.  The risk would be
worth running.  But, as matters now stood, it
would be sheer suicidal madness on her part,
without the faintest chance of accomplishing anything
to justify the attempt.

Meanwhile the destroyer was sending out wireless
messages reporting the presence of the raiders.
Busy in exchanging wireless signals with their
far-flung line of covering torpedo-boats, and with
a couple of Zeppelins that flew high overhead, the
German vessels made no attempt to "jam" the
*Calder's* aerial warning.

Constantly ready for action at very brief notice,
the British battle-squadrons were under weigh
within a few minutes of the receipt of the *Calder's*
message, and Beatty's Cat Squadron was heading
south-east with all possible speed before the
first hostile gun thundered against Great Yarmouth.

"They've opened the one-sided ball," remarked
Sefton as a dull boom from the now invisible
German ships--a single report that was quickly taken
up by other heavy weapons--was borne to the ears
of the *Calder's* crew.  "And, by Jove, Whit-Monday too."

"Yes," assented the doctor.  "And ten to one
the beach is crowded with holiday-makers.  Before
we left port, didn't we see some idiotic report in the
papers stating that the East Coast would be ready
for holiday visitors 'as usual'?"

"Let's hope the Huns will get cut off again,"
said the sub.  "Another *Blücher* or two will make
them sit up."

"They're too wary," replied the somewhat
pessimistic medico.  "They've been warned that the
coast is clear.  Before the submarines from
Harwich can come up they'll be off.  And with twelve
hours of daylight in front of them they'll be back
long before our sixth destroyer flotilla can make a
night attack."

For nearly twenty minutes the officers and men
listened in silence to the furious bombardment.
Several of the latter had homes in the town that
now lay exposed to the enemy guns.  Realizing
their helplessness, they could only hope that the
damage done was no greater than that of the
previous naval attack on the same place, and that
this time the Cat Squadron would intercept the
raiders and exact a just and terrible retribution.

At length the firing ceased almost as suddenly
as it had begun.  In vain the destroyer's crew
waited long and anxiously for the renewal of the
cannonade in the offing that would announce the
gratifying news that Beatty had once more
intercepted the returning Huns.

At 20 knots the *Calder* returned towards the
position in which she had left the two trawlers.
With feelings of relief it was seen that both craft
were still afloat and apparently all well.

Suddenly one of the look-outs raised the shout of:
"Submarine on the starboard bow, sir!"

Without a moment's hesitation Crosthwaite telegraphed
for full speed, at the same time ordering
the quartermaster to port helm.

A mile and a half away could be discerned the
elongated conning-tower and partly housed twin
periscopes of a large submarine, although why in
broad daylight the unterseeboot--for such she
undoubtedly was--exposed her conning-tower above
the surface was at first sight perplexing.

With the for'ard 4-inch quick-firer loaded and
trained upon the meagre target the *Calder* leapt
forward at a good 24 knots, ready at the first sign
of the submerging of the submarine to send a
projectile crashing into and pulverizing the thin steel
plating of her conning-tower.

So intent was the lieutenant-commander upon
his intended prey that he had failed to notice the
proximity of a black-and-white can buoy now almost
on the starboard bow.  It was not until Sefton
reminded him of the fact that he realized that the
destroyer was doing her level best to pile herself
upon the Haisborough Sands--a feat that the
German submarine had already accomplished to the
rage and mortification of her officers and crew.

Listing violently outwards, the destroyer swung
round clear of the treacherous shoal, and for the
first time Crosthwaite was aware of the ignominious
predicament of the unterseeboot.

"The beggar may have a broadside torpedo-tube,"
he remarked to his subordinate as he ordered
the *Calder* to be swung round, bows on to the
stranded craft, speed having been reduced to give
the destroyer more steerage-way.  "Give her a
round with the for'ard gun.  Plank a shell a
hundred yards astern."

The shot had the desired effect.  The conning-tower
hatch was thrown open, and the head and
shoulders of a petty officer appeared.  For a few
moments he hesitated, looking thoroughly scared,
then his hands were extended above his head.

In this position of surrender he remained, until,
finding that the destroyer made no further attempt
to shell the submarine, he emerged from the
conning-tower.  Two officers followed, and then the
rest of the crew--twenty-two all told.  The officers
stood upon the steel grating surrounding the
conning-tower, for the tide had now fallen sufficiently
to allow the platform to show above water.  The
rest of the crew, wading knee-deep, formed up in a
sorry line upon the after part of the still submerged
hull, and, with uplifted hands, awaited the pleasure
of their captors.

"Fetch 'em off, Mr. Sefton," ordered the
lieutenant-commander.  "Half of 'em at a time."

The sub hastened to order away the boat.  As
he did so Dr. Stirling nudged him and whispered
in his ear:

"Shall I lend you a saw, old man?"

"A saw!" repeated Sefton in astonishment.
"What on earth for?"

"Skipper said you were to bring half of them at
a time," explained the irresponsible medico with a
grin.  "Better try the top half of each man first trip."

"That'll do, Pills," retorted the sub.  "If it's
surgery you're after, you had better do your own
dirty work."

"Give way, lads," ordered the sub as the boat
drew clear of the steel wall-side of the destroyer.

"We surrender make," declared the kapitan of
the submarine as the boat ranged up alongside.
"We haf a leak sprung."

.. _`"'We surrender make....  We haf a leak sprung'"`:

.. figure:: images/img-031.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "WE SURRENDER MAKE....  WE HAF A LEAK SPRUNG"

   "WE SURRENDER MAKE....  WE HAF A LEAK SPRUNG"]

"Sorry to hear it," rejoined Sefton.

"Is dat so?" enquired the perplexed German,
mystified at his foe's solicitude.

"Yes," soliloquized the sub.  "We would much
rather have collared the strafed submarine intact.
We didn't bargain for her keel plates being stove in.

"Now then!" he exclaimed.  "I'll take eleven
of you men first trip."

The coxwain and bowman of the boat deftly
engaged their boat-hooks in convenient projections
of the submarine's conning-tower, while the
specified number of dejected and apprehensive Huns
was received on board.

Having delivered the first batch of prisoners on
the destroyer, Sefton returned, but, instead of
immediately running alongside the prize, he ordered
his men to lie on their oars.  With the boat drifting
at a distance of twenty yards from the unterseeboot,
the sub coolly awaited developments.

The Huns--officers and men alike--were far from
cool.  Gesticulating wildly, they implored the sub
to take them off.  Never before had Sefton seen
a greater anxiety on the part of the Germans to
abandon their ship, and in the course of eleven
months' service in the North Sea his knowledge
of the ways of the wily Hun was fairly extensive.

At length two of the submarine's crew, unable
to restrain their panic, leapt overboard and struck
out for the boat.

"Stand by with a stretcher, there, Jenkins,"
ordered Sefton.  "Show them what we mean to
do.  Knock them over the knuckles if they attempt
to grasp the gunwale."

"We surrender do, kamerad!" shouted the
Huns in dolorous chorus, seeing their companions
repelled from the waiting boat.

"Yes, I know," replied Sefton.  "You've told
me that already.  A few minutes' wait won't hurt
you.  There's plenty of time."

"Back oars!" ordered the sub, as the Germans,
terrified beyond measure, slid from the submarine's
deck into the water, officers and men striking out
frantically.

Thirty seconds later came the dull muffled sound
of an explosion.  A thin wreath of vapour issued
from the open conning-tower.

"Not much of a bust-up that," exclaimed Sefton
contemptuously.  "It would not have flicked a fly
from her deck.  Well, I suppose I must take the
beggars into the boat."

The lightness of the explosion had also astonished
the German officers.  Adopting their usual
procedure they had fixed three detonators in the hull
of the stranded vessel, and upon the approach of
the *Calder's* boat the second time they had lighted
the four-minute time-fuses.

Sefton, guessing rightly what had been done,
had resolved to give the Huns, not a bad quarter
of an hour, but a worse three minutes.  He, too,
expected to see the submarine's hull disintegrated
by a terrific explosion.

On the boat's return to the destroyer with the
rest of the prisoners, Sefton made his report to
the lieutenant-commander.

"Can't blame them," declared Crosthwaite.  "In
similar circumstances we would have done the
same, but with better results, I hope.  Send that
petty officer aft; I want to speak to him."

The man indicated was, as luck would have it,
the fellow responsible for lighting the fuses.
Putting on his fiercest expression, Lieutenant-Commander
Crosthwaite sternly taxed him with attempting
to destroy the submarine after she had surrendered.

Taken aback, the man admitted that it was so.

"How many detonators?" asked Crosthwaite.

"Three, Herr Kapitan."

"And what time-fuses?"

"Four-minutes," was the reply.

"Then jolly rotten stuff," commented the
lieutenant-commander as he motioned for the prisoner
to be removed below.  "We'll give them another
quarter of an hour before we board her."

The stated time passed without any signs of
further internal explosions.  The *Calder* made good
use of the interval, Harwich being communicated
with by wireless, announcing the capture of the
prize, and requesting tugs and lighters to be
dispatched to assist the disabled U boat into port.

"Now I think it's all O.K.," remarked
Crosthwaite.  "Sure you're keen on the job?"

Sefton flushed under his tanned skin.  His
skipper was quick to notice that he had blundered.

"Sorry!" he said apologetically.  "Ought to
have jolly well known you better.  Off you go,
and good luck.  By the by, take a volunteer crew."

Of the seventy men of the *Calder* every one
would have unhesitatingly followed the sub.
Asking for volunteers for a hazardous service was
merely a matter of form.  There was quite a mild
contest to take part in the operations of boarding
the submarine.

By this time the falling tide had left nearly the
whole extent of the deck dry.  There were four
hatchways in addition to the conning-tower, each
of which was securely fastened.  Through the
open aperture in the conning-tower Sefton made
his way.  Below all was in darkness, for with the
explosion the electric lamps had been extinguished.
A heavy reek of petrol fumes and sulphurous smoke
scented the confined space.

The sub switched on the electric torch which he
had taken the precaution to bring with him.  The
rays barely penetrated the smoke beyond a few feet.

"Phew!" he muttered.  "Too jolly thick.  It is
a case for a smoke-helmet."

Back went the boat, returning in a short space of
time with the required article.  Donning the
safety-helmet, one of the bluejackets descended, groped
his way to the nearest hatchway and opened it.

An uninterrupted current of fresh air ensued, and
in ten minutes the midship portion of the prize was
practically free from noxious fumes.

"Blow me, Nobby," exclaimed one of the
carpenter's crew, "did you ever see such a lash up?
Strikes me they slung this old hooker together in a
bit of a hurry."

The shipwright's contemptuous reference to the
Teuton constructor's art was justified.  The
submarine had every appearance of being roughly
built in sections and bolted together.  Everything
pointed to hurried and makeshift work.

Under the engine beds Sefton discovered two
unexploded detonators.  The one that had gone off
was "something of a dud", for the explosive force
was very feeble--insufficient even to start any of the
hull plating.  But it had performed a useful service
to the British prize crew: the blast had detached
the time-fuses from the remaining gun-cotton
charges, and had thus preserved the submarine
from total destruction.

Nevertheless Sefton heaved a sigh of relief as the
two detonators were dropped overboard.  Guncotton,
especially German-made stuff, was apt to
play peculiar tricks.

The fore and after compartments or sub-divisions
of the hull were closed by means of watertight
doors in the bulkheads.  The foremost was found
to have four feet of water--the same depth as that
of the sea over the bank on which the vessel had
stranded.  It was here that the plates had been
started when the U boat made her unlucky
acquaintance with the Haisborough Shoal.

Flashing his torch upon the oily surface of the
water, Sefton made a brief examination.  On either
side of the bulging framework were tiers of bunks.
This compartment, then, was the sleeping-quarters
of the submarine's crew.  Of torpedo-tubes there
were no signs; nor were these to be found
anywhere else on board.  Aft was a "gantry"
communicating with an ingeniously contrived air-lock.
The submarine was not designed for torpedo
work but for an even more sinister task: that of
mine-laying.  Not a single globe of latent destruction
remained on board.  Already the U boat had
sown her crop of death; would there be time to
destroy the harvest?




CHAPTER IV--Not Under Control
=============================

Quickly the news of the captured submarine's
former activities was flash-signalled to the *Calder*,
and with the least possible delay the information
was transmitted by wireless to Great Yarmouth and
Harwich.

Until the minefield was located and destroyed
it was unsafe for any shipping to proceed to or
from Yarmouth Roads.

Questions put to the U boat's crew elicited that
the vessel was one of seven operating in conjunction
with the raiding cruisers.  While the German
fleet was bombarding Yarmouth, the submarines--having
on account of their slower speed set out on
the previous day--proceeded to lay a chain of mines
from the Would through Haisborough Gat, and
thence to a point a few cables east of the Gorton
lightship, thus completely enclosing Yarmouth
Roads from the sea.  The UC6--that being the
designation of the prize--had just completed her
task when she sighted the *Calder* approaching.
Miscalculating her position, she had run her nose
hard upon the shoal, with the result that her low
compartment quickly flooded, thus rendering her
incapable of keeping afloat.

It was not long before four mine-sweepers came
lumbering northwards from Yarmouth, while others
proceeded in different directions to "clear up the
mess", as their crews tersely described the
dangerous operations of destroying the mines.

The *Calder*, still standing by, had missed the
northern limit of the German minefield by a few
yards.  Had she held on her former course the
probability was that she would have bumped upon
a couple of the infernal contrivances--for the mines
were dropped in twos, each pair connected by a
span of cable to make more certain of a vessel's
bows being caught in its bight--and been blown
up with the loss of all her crew.

The destroyer had been sent on particular service.
Other side issues had demanded her attention, and,
with the pluck and resourcefulness of British
seamen, her crew had risen to the occasion.  To them
it was all in the day's work, with one ulterior
motive--to push on with the war.

Deftly, the result of months of experience, the
mine-sweepers set to work.  With little delay the
first of the mines was located, dragged to the
surface, and sunk by means of rifle-fire.  Others were
destroyed in quick succession, two exploding as the
bullets, made for the purpose of penetrating the
buoyancy chambers, contrived to hit the projecting
horns of the detonating mechanism.

In two hours, the trawlers having swept the
whole extent of the Would, the minefield was
reported to be destroyed.

"What damage ashore?" enquired Crosthwaite,
as the nearest trawler sidled under the destroyer's
stern.

"Precious little, sir, considering," replied the
master of the mine-sweeper.  "A few buildings
knocked about and a score or so of people killed or
injured.  Might ha' been worse," and he shook his
fist in the direction in which the raiders had fled.

Sedately, as if conscious of having modestly
performed a gallant service, the mine-sweepers bore
up for home, and once again the *Calder* was left to
stand by her prize.

She was not long left alone.  A number of
motor patrol-boats came buzzing round like flies
round a honey-pot.  The work of transferring the
German prisoners was quickly taken in hand.  They
were put on board the patrol-boats in batches of
half a dozen.  It saved the destroyer the trouble of
putting into port when she was supposed to hold no
communication with the shore.

The last of the motor-boats had brought up
alongside the *Calder* when Sefton recognized the
R.N.R. sub-lieutenant in charge as an old friend of
pre-war days.

Algernon Stickleton was a man whose acquaintance
with the sea was strictly limited to week-ends
spent on board the Motor Yacht Club's
headquarters--the ex-Admiralty yacht *Enchantress*--in
Southampton Water.  Given a craft with engines,
he could steer her with a certain amount of
confidence.  Of navigation and the art of a mariner he
knew little or nothing.  Tides were a mystery to
him, the mariner's compass an unknown quantity.
In short, he was a marine motorist--the
counterpart of the motor road-hog ashore.

Upon the outbreak of war, commissions in the
R.N.R. motor-boat service were flung broadcast
by the Admiralty at the members of the Motor
Yacht Club, and amongst those who donned the
pilot-coat with the gold wavy band and curl was
Algernon Stickleton.  At first he was given a
"soft job", doing a sort of postman's work in
Cowes Roads, until the experience, combined with
his success in extricating himself, more by good luck
than good management, from a few tight corners,
justified the experiment of granting a commission
to a comparatively callow marine motorist.

Then he was put through a rapid course of
signalling and elementary navigation, and, having
"stuck at it", the budding sub-lieutenant R.N.R. was
sent to the East Coast on a motor-yacht with
the prospect of being given a fast patrol-boat when
deemed proficient.

Gone were those halcyon August and September
days in Cowes Roads.  He had to take his craft out
by day and night, blow high or low.  Boarding
suspicious vessels in the open roadstead hardened
his nerves and gave an unwonted zest to his work.
At last he was doing something definite--taking an
active part in the navy's work.

"My first trip in this hooker, old man," he
announced to Sefton, indicating with a sweep of
his hand the compact, grey-painted motor craft
that lay alongside the destroyer's black hull.  "A
clinker for speed.  She'd knock your craft into a
cocked hat.  It beats Brooklands hollow.  Wants
a bit of handlin', don't you know, but I think I
brought her alongside very nicely, what?"

The last of the German prisoners having been
received on board and passed below to the
forepeak, Sub-lieutenant Stickleton prepared to cast
off.  Touching the tarnished peak of his cap, for
months of exposure to all weathers had dimmed
the pristine lustre of the once resplendent
headgear, he gave the word for the motors to be
started.

Then, with one hand on the steering-wheel, he
let in the clutch.

Like an arrow from a bow the powerful box of
machinery leapt forward.  The result was disastrous
as far as Stickleton was concerned.  Unprepared
to counteract the sudden momentum, he was literally
"left", for, subsiding upon the short after-deck, he
rolled backwards over the transom and fell into
the boiling wake of the rapidly-moving motor-boat.

Fortunately he could swim well, and was quickly
hauled over the destroyer's side, a dripping but
still cheerful object.

Several of the *Calder's* crew laughed outright.
Even Crosthwaite and Sefton had to smile.  The
sopping R.N.R. officer was quick to enter into the
joke against himself.

"Hope I won't get reprimanded for leaving my
ship without permission," he remarked facetiously.

"You haven't asked permission to board mine,"
Crosthwaite reminded him.  "It's the custom of
the service, you know."

Meanwhile attention was being transferred from
the dripping officer to the craft of which he ought
to be in command.  Evidently her crew were
unaware of what had occurred.  The bowman was
coiling down a rope, two of the deck hands were
engaged in securing the fore-peak hatchway, while
the rest were down below.  The patrol-boat was
tearing along at 38 knots, and, owing to the "torque"
of the propellers, was describing a vast circle to port.

It was the cabin-boy who first made the discovery
that the little craft was without a guiding hand at
the wheel.  He was down below tidying up the
sub's cabin, when he found an automatic cigarette-lighter
that Stickleton had mislaid.  Anxious to
get into his superior officer's good books, for the
youngster was the bane of Stickleton's existence on
board, the boy ascended the short ladder leading
to the cockpit.  To his surprise he found no helmsman.

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 coxswain 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 coxswain.  "Guess we've
bumped 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 amidships, 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 reassuring reply.
"Whack her up, mate."

The coxwain 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 coxwain'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 coxwain, saluting, delivering the information in
a matter-of-fact manner, as if destroying enemy
craft in this fashion 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
===============================

"A tug and a couple of lighters bearing down,
sir," reported the *Calder's* look-out before the diver
had reappeared from his errand of investigation.

Approaching at the modest rate of 7 knots was
a paddle-wheel steamer towing two unwieldy craft
resembling overgrown canal barges.

The tide was now well on the flood.  It wanted
about a couple of hours to high water, and, since
the falling glass and clear visibility of distant
objects betokened the approach of bad weather,
urgent steps would have to be taken speedily to
extricate the captured submarine from the embraces
of the sand-bank.

The examination of the prize by her captors was
now practically complete.  The U boat was one of
a new type, and had left Wilhelmshaven on her
maiden trip forty-eight hours previously.  She had
either lost her bearings or had purposely approached
shoal water.  Anyhow she had been neatly strafed
before she had had time to do much mischief.

Already the *Calder's* crew had taken steps to
assist the salvage people in the task of floating the
prize.  The hatchways, with the exception of that
of the conning-tower, had been hermetically closed,
and the watertight doors in the for'ard bulkhead
shut and shored up to withstand the pressure of
water in the holed fore-peak.

By the time the lighters were made fast, one on
either side of the submarine, the level of the water
was up to within fifteen inches of the conning-tower
hatchway.  Quickly hoses, connected to Downton
pumps, were led from the lighters to the
water-ballast tanks of the submarine, since it had been
found impossible to "start" the ballast by means
of hand pumps.

It was a race against time and tide.  The
mechanical appliances won, and soon the *Calder's*
officers and crew had the satisfaction of seeing the
submarine's deck appear close to the surface.

She still had a pronounced "dip", the flooded
for'ard compartment tending to depress her bow;
but, supported by the two lighters, she was
prevented from sinking.  Then, taken in tow by the
tug, the prize, with her cumbersome attendants,
waddled slowly for Harwich.

Her part in this supplementary business ended,
the *Calder* slipped off at full speed to the position
where the *Dimpled Lassie* and the *Carse o' Gowrie*
still held a resolute grip on the recovered cable.

As Skipper M'Kie had surmised, neither of the
trawlers had been molested by the German
battle-cruisers or destroyers.  Carried away by their
frantic desire to make a display of frightfulness
upon an unprotected English watering-place they
had totally ignored the seemingly innocuous
cable-grappling craft.

"It will blow like billy-oh before morning,"
remarked Lieutenant Crosthwaite to his subordinate.
"I'm going to tell them to buoy and slip
the cable.  We've done very well, I think.  You
might make an observation; I'll take another, and
we'll check our calculations.  I'll guarantee we
won't have much trouble in fishing up the cable
next time."

Crosthwaite's orders to the skippers of the
trawlers were smartly carried out, and the cable,
left with its position marked by a green
wreck-buoy, a sufficient guarantee against detrimental
examination by curious fishermen.  Before sunset
the *Calder* and her two charges were snug in
Lowestoft harbour, the crews being cautioned
against the risk of letting fall any hint concerning
their recent work--an injunction that they loyally
carried out.

It was three days before the gale blew itself out.
During that period events had been moving rapidly.
And here one of the few advantages of being on
particular service became apparent.  Had not the
*Calder* been detailed for escort duties to the
cable-grappling trawlers the chances were that she would
be plugging against heavy green seas, while those
of her crew not on duty on deck would be existing
under battened hatches.  Instead, the destroyer was
lying snugly berthed in a harbour, and her crew
were able to enjoy brief spells of liberty ashore.

The next step was to locate the shore end of the
cable.  This work required particular skill and
discretion, since the German operator would
certainly be on the alert for the first suspicious
movement.

Scotland Yard detectives, disguised as fishermen
and longshoremen, eventually succeeded in tracing
the source of the leakage of information.  The
temporary cable had been brought ashore nearly four
miles from the original landing-place of the severed
line, and led to a wooden hut on the edge of the
sandy cliffs.

For the present, all that was required to be done
in that direction was performed.  The Admiralty
had decided to let the cable turn the tables upon
the Huns, and, until the time was ripe, the spy
could telegraph without interruption, but unwittingly
he was digging a pit for himself from which
no escape was possible.

It was well into the third week in May when the
*Calder* received orders to proceed to Rosyth,
replenish stores and oil-fuel, and rejoin her flotilla.
The news was hailed with delight, since it was
possible that many of the officers and crew would
be able to proceed on leave.

Another week passed.  Information had reached
the Commander-in-Chief of a certain amount of
German activity in the North Sea.  Something
had to be done to attract the attention of the
German populace from the series of rebuffs
experienced by the Huns before Verdun.
Exaggerated reports concerning the prowess of the
German High Seas Fleet, coupled with news of
spasmodic raids upon the British coast, helped to
foster the ill-founded belief of the Huns in the
invincibility of their navy, while, to keep up the
deceit, Admiral von Scheer took his ships out for
various discreet cruises off the Danish coast, where
there was ever a possibility of making a quick run
back under the guns and behind the minefields of
Heligoland.

On the 29th May orders were issued for the
First and Second Battle Squadrons and the Second
Battle-Cruiser Squadron to proceed to a certain
rendezvous in order to carry out target practice.
The instructions were issued through the usual
channels, with the almost certain knowledge that
the information would leak out.  The Commander-in-Chief's
anticipation proved to be correct, for
within three hours of the issuing of the order the
news was transmitted to Germany by means of the
tapped cable.

It was not the Admiral's intention to carry out
target practice.  Instead, the whole of the Grand
Fleet put to sea from its various bases, ostensibly
for the neighbourhood of the Orkneys, but in reality
for a far more important objective.

At 1 a.m. on the 31st the authorities raided the
isolated hut on the Norfolk coast, captured the
German telegraph operator in the act of
communicating with Borkum, and hurried him away under
close arrest.  He had played his part as far as the
British interests were concerned, since he had
informed the German Admiralty of the supposed
rendezvous of Jellicoe's fleet.

"Do you think there's something in the wind,
sir?" asked Sefton, as the *Calder*, in station with
the rest of her flotilla, was slipping along at
18 knots.

Crosthwaite smiled enigmatically.  He knew as
much as captains of ships were supposed to know,
which wasn't very much, but more than their
subordinates were told.

"Patience!" he replied.  "Can't say more at
present.  You might see how repairs to that 4-inch
gun are progressing."

Sefton descended the bridge ladder and made
his way aft.  Slight defects in the mounting of
the stern-chaser quick-firer had appeared almost as
soon as the destroyer left the Firth of Forth, and
the armourer's crew were hard at work rectifying
the damage.

Gripping the stanchion rail surrounding the gun
platform, for the *Calder* was rolling considerably
in the "wash" of her preceding consorts, and
exposed to a stiff beam wind, the sub watched the
operation.  He had no need to ask any questions;
there was little about the mechanism of a 4-inch
and its mountings that he did not know.  He could
see that the repairs were almost completed, only a
few finishing touches requiring to be done.

"Man overboard!"

The sub rushed to the side just in time to see
the outstretched arms of a bluejacket emerging
from the following wave of the swiftly moving
craft.  It was indeed fortunate that the man was
still alive, not only had he escaped having his
back broken on striking the water, but he had
missed the rapidly revolving starboard propeller.
Clad in a "duffel" suit and wearing sea-boots, his
position was precarious in the extreme.

Without hesitation Sefton made a flying leap
over the guard-rails.  Once clear of the side he
drew up his legs and hunched his shoulders,
striking the water with tremendous force.  Well it was
that he had taken this precaution instead of making
a dive in the ordinary sense of the word, for, carried
onward at the rate of a mile every three minutes,
he ran a serious risk of dislocated limbs or a broken
back had he not rolled himself into the nearest
resemblance to a ball.

.. _`"WITHOUT HESITATION SEFTON MADE A FLYING LEAP OVER THE GUARD RAILS"`:

.. figure:: images/img-058.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "WITHOUT HESITATION SEFTON MADE A FLYING LEAP OVER THE GUARD RAILS"

   "WITHOUT HESITATION SEFTON MADE A FLYING LEAP OVER THE GUARD RAILS"

He sank deeply, and was swept irresistibly by
the back-wash; it seemed as if he were fathoms
down.  Before he emerged he could distinctly hear
the whirr of the triple propellers.  Rising to the
surface he refilled his lungs with the salt-laden air,
for the concussion had wellnigh deprived him of
breath.  Then he gave a hurried glance around him.

The *Calder* was already a couple of cables' lengths
away, while the destroyer next astern was almost on
top of him.  As she swept by, a lifebuoy was hurled
towards the sub, luckily missing him by a bare yard.

The second and last destroyer astern saw the
swimmer, and by porting helm avoided him easily,
and saved him from the great discomfort of being
flung about in her wake like a pea in a saucepan of
boiling water.  Without making any attempt to
slow down and send a boat, the destroyer flotilla held on.

Sefton soon realized the necessity for this
apparently inexplicable act.  It was impossible without
grave risk to the flotilla to break up the formation,
while the danger was still further increased by the
fact that the First Cruiser Squadron was pelting
along somewhere three or four miles astern, and
these vessels, being of a considerable tonnage,
carried a tremendous amount of way.  Above all,
it was war-time, and individuals do not count when
greater issues are at stake.

Presently the sub descried the head and shoulders
of the missing man as he rose on the crest of the
broken waves.  He, too, had succeeded in reaching
a lifebuoy thrown by the nearmost destroyer.  Short
as had been the time between the man's tumble
overboard and Sefton's deliberate leap, owing to
the speed of the flotilla nearly a quarter of a mile
separated the would-be rescuer from the object of
his gallant attempt.

"No use hanging on here," thought Sefton, as
he clung to the buoy.  "Must get to the man somehow."

Then it was that he realized that he had gone
overboard in a thick pilot coat and india-rubber
sea-boots.  These he sacrificed regretfully, since
there was no chance of replenishing his kit until
the *Calder* returned to port--that is, if he had the
good fortune to survive his adventure "in the
ditch".  The operation of discarding the boots
gave him a tussle, during which he swallowed
more salt water than desirable; then, relaxing his
grip on the lifebuoy, Sefton struck out towards the man.

The sub was a good swimmer.  At Dartmouth
he had been "runner-up" for the 440 yards
championship, but now he realized the vast difference
between swimming that length in regulation
costume and an equal distance almost fully clothed in
the choppy North Sea.

By the time the sub came within hailing distance
of the seaman his limbs felt as heavy as lead,
while, do what he would, he was unable to raise
his voice above a whisper, much less "assure the
drowning man in a loud, firm voice that he is safe",
according to the official regulations.  Sefton was
by no means certain that he himself was in anything
but a most precarious position.

Sefton found that the man he had risked his life
to save was not half so exhausted as he was.  The
seaman had come off lightly in his fall, and he had
had no occasion to tire himself with a long swim
to the lifebuoy, since the crew of the passing
destroyer had all but brained him with the cork "Kisbie".

The A.B. regarded his rescuer with a look that
betokened pained disapproval.  He was one of
those men who are ever "up against discipline".
To him the gold band and curl on a uniform meant
something more than authority: it roused a spirit
of sullen aggression.

And yet Thomas Brown had joined the Royal
Navy with the best intentions.  Fate, in the shape
of a short-tempered recruiting-officer, had marred
his career from the very start; for, on joining the
training-school at Shotley, one of the questions
asked of him was the name of his birthplace.

"Ashby-de-la-Zouch, sir," replied young Brown,
giving the name with the accepted Leicestershire
accent.

"Where did you say?" enquired the lieutenant.

The recruit repeated the words.

"Zoo, did you say?" snapped the officer.

"Yes, sir," rejoined Thomas Brown without a
moment's hesitation.  "The next cage to yours."

The repartee came absolutely on the spur of the
moment.  A second's reflection might have made
all the difference.  It was a bad start, and the
newly-entered boy suffered for it.  That was some
years ago, but in the Royal Navy the old adage of
giving a dog a bad name holds good longer than
anywhere else.

Sefton recognized the man as one who figured
frequently in the "Captain's Report".  Young as
he was, the sub had a keen insight into human
nature, and although he knew nothing of the first
slip that had marred the A.B.'s career he was
certain that there were good points in the man, and
that underneath his rugged, surly exterior there was
something of true worth.

"No need for you to tumble into the ditch after
me, sir," said the man.  "I can shift for myself."

He spoke gruffly, but underlying the remonstrance
was an unmistakable tone of gratitude.  In
the circumstances he was glad of company.  He
would have welcomed his "raggie", or chum, in
preference to an officer, but at such times the
difference of rank gives place to the equality of human
peril.

"They'll pick us both up," declared Sefton,
although in his mind he had grave doubts as to
the matter.

"Not they," rejoined A.B. Brown, indicating the
direction of the now invisible flotilla with a jerk
of his closely-cropped head.  "The cruisers might.
But take hold of this, sir," he added, pushing the
buoy to within reach of the sub.  "You looks as if
you want it a long sight more'n me."

Both men relapsed into silence.  Further conversation
meant a waste of precious breath.  At intervals,
as the buoy rose on the billows, Sefton "hiked"
his head and shoulders well clear of the water in
the hope of sighting the armoured-cruiser squadron.

"They're a precious long time in coming up,"
he soliloquized.  "Seven minutes ought to have
done the trick."

As a matter of fact, the First Cruiser Squadron
had received a wireless message from the *Calder*
within ninety seconds of Sefton's leap overboard,
requesting the vessels to keep a sharp look-out for
the two men.

On receipt of the intelligence the armoured
cruisers' speed was reduced to 10 knots, and this
accounted for the seemingly endless time that
elapsed before the vessels came within sight of the
two well-nigh exhausted men as they clung to the
lifebuoy.

At length, through the light haze that prevailed
throughout the morning, could be discerned the
grey outlines of the First Cruiser Squadron.

The ships were steaming in double column, line
ahead, the *Defence*, flying the Rear-Admiral's flag,
leading the starboard and the *Warrior* the port line.
With faultless precision they came on, three cables'
distance separating the units of each division, and
twice that interval betwixt the columns.

"They've spotted us, sir," exclaimed Able
Seaman Brown, as the alteration of position of the
red flag and green cone displayed from the cruiser's
mainmast yard-arm told the two men that the
*Warrior's* helm was being ported.  Simultaneously
the "steaming cones" were reversed, showing that
the ship's engines were going astern--a manoeuvre
followed by the rest of the squadron.

Almost before way was taken off the ship the
*Warrior's* sea-boat was rapidly lowered from the
davits.  Sefton could hear the dull thud of the
lower blocks as the releasing-gear came into action
and the falls surged against the ship's side, and the
treble-voiced midshipman urging his boat's crew
to "give way there, my lads, for all you're worth."

Although only a minute and a half elapsed
between the time the sea-boat got away from the ship
and her arrival at the scene of the rescue, the
interval seemed interminable to Sub-lieutenant Sefton.

With feelings of indescribable relief he realized
that he was being gripped by two pairs of horny
powerful hands and lifted over the dipping gunwale
into the stern-sheets, while others performed a like
office for the saturated A.B.

Smartly the sea-boat was brought alongside the
cruiser.  Deftly the hoisting-gear was engaged,
and with a hundred-and-twenty men tailing on the
falls the boat and her occupants were whisked up
to a level with the vessel's quarter-deck.

And thus Acting Sub-lieutenant John Sefton
found himself on board H.M.S. *Warrior*, in blissful
ignorance of the gallant part the armoured cruiser
was about to bear in the glorious battle off the
Jutland Bank.




CHAPTER VI--Action at the Double
================================

The ship upon which Sefton found himself as an
unauthorized supernumerary was an armoured
cruiser of 13,550 tons, built and completed at
Pembroke nine years previously.  She was one of a
class of four that marked a new departure in naval
architecture--each of her guns being mounted
singly and in a separate turret.  At the time when
she was laid down she was considered one of the
heaviest armed cruisers of her day, mounting six
9.2-inch and four 7.5-inch guns.  Of these, three
9.2's could be made to fire ahead, and a similar
number astern, while on either broadside she could
deliver a formidable salvo from four of the guns of
heavier calibre and two of the 7.5's.  With the
exception of the following year's programme of the
*Minotaur* class, the *Warrior* and her sister ships
were the last armoured cruisers laid down by the
British Admiralty, the all-big-gun battle-cruisers
simply outclassing at one swoop the armoured
cruisers of the world's navies.

Nevertheless the *Warrior* was still a powerful
unit, and calculated to be more than a match for
any German vessel of her size.  Her designed
speed of a fraction over 22 knots--a rate that when
necessity arose could be exceeded--enabled her
with the rest of her class to form a valuable,
hard-hitting auxiliary to the vessels of the battle-cruiser
squadrons.

While Sefton was being kitted out by an obliging
brother sub-lieutenant, a wireless message had
been sent to the *Calder* announcing the safety of
her sub-lieutenant and A.B. Brown.

Crosthwaite received the gratifying intelligence
with undisguised delight.  His feelings were
shared by the whole of the ship's company, for,
almost without exception, the destroyer's officers
were voted a "sound lot", and the possibility of
Sefton's death in a gallant attempt at the rescue of
a lower-deck man had thrown a gloom over the ship.

As for the lieutenant-commander, his relief and
gratitude to Providence knew no bounds.  Between
Sefton's leap overboard and the receipt of the
*Warrior's* message he had passed through a
distressing time.  Apart from his personal regard for
the sub, with whom he had shared adventures and
perils in the Near East, the fact that he had been
compelled to abandon Sefton to the vagaries of fate
hit him hard.  He was even doubtful whether, with
the possibilities of hostile submarines cruising
around, the armoured cruisers would risk slowing
down to rescue two men and at the same time
present a splendid target for German torpedoes.
However, the deed of rescue was accomplished, and the
next step to consider was how to get Sefton and the
A.B. back on the destroyer.  The former's presence
was desirable, in fact essential.

In answer to the *Calder's* lieutenant-commander's
request, whether it would be possible for Sefton to
be sent back to the destroyer, the rescuing ship
replied that, should opportunity occur, the *Calder*
could close, but that, in view of present conditions,
such a step was most unlikely.

"So you'll jolly well have to make yourself
at home here, old bird," remarked one of the
*Warrior's* sub-lieutenants, who as a youngster had
passed out of Dartmouth at the same time as Sefton.
"Suppose the trip will do you good.  Sort of
marine excursion out and home, don't you know.
Nothin' doin', and never a sign of a Hun, unless it
be a 'tin-fish' or two."

The *Warrior's* sub voiced the opinion of the
rest of the gun-room.  He was president of the
mess and a mild autocrat over the "small fry", and
generally voted a rattling good sort by the handful
of midshipmen, many of whom, alas! were to yield
up their lives in undying fame before many hours
were past.

Yet, although the whole of the personnel of the
Grand Fleet were as keen as mustard to meet the
Huns, frequent and almost unvarying disappointment
had been their lot.  Over and over again
Beatty's squadron had swept the North Sea without
coming in contact with the enemy, until it was the
general conclusion that, until the High Seas Fleet
was actually sighted, it was of no use speculating
upon the chances of the "big scrap".

And now, on the memorable morning of
Wednesday, the 31st May, the First and Second
Battle-cruiser Squadron, three light-cruiser squadrons,
with attendant destroyers, were ploughing eastward
across the North Sea, with the knowledge that
the hard-hitting Battle Fleet, together with a
formidable array of cruisers and destroyers, was some
distance to the nor'ard, ready, at the first
wireless call, to complete the toils thrown around the
German fleet should the latter, lured into a sense
of false security, dare to leave the mine-fields of
Heligoland.

Shortly after noon the wind dropped and the
water became almost calm, save for the
undulations caused by the swiftly-moving squadron.
Overhead the sun shone faintly through a thick
haze, which for hours hung about with irritating
persistence.

Sefton had just commenced a game of draughts
with some of the officers who were off duty, when
a messenger entered the gun-room and handed a
"chit" to the senior sub.  Not until the man had
gone did the young officer break the momentous
news to the others, apologizing as if the information
might unduly raise their hopes.

"I don't want to be too cock-sure, you fellows,"
he announced.  "Looks as if they're out this time,
but----"

"I vote we go on deck," suggested a midshipman.

"And see the whole of the German fleet," added
a junior watchkeeper facetiously.

"Anyhow, there's 'General Quarters'," retorted
the middy daringly as a bugle rang out, the call
being quickly repeated in various parts of the ship,
"Look alive, you fellows."

"Stick to me, Sefton," said the senior sub,
snatching his telescope from a rack and making
a bolt for the door.  "If there's anything to be
seen of the scrap you'll have a good chance with
me.  I'm fire-control, don't you know."

Jack Sefton nodded his head in acquiescence.
He was sorry that he was not on board the *Calder*,
since there was a greater possibility of the destroyer
flotillas dashing in to complete the work of the
battle-cruisers than of the armoured cruisers
getting within range.

Gaining the quarter-deck, the *Calder's* sub heard
the unmistakable baritone hum of an aerial
propeller.  Overhead, at a low altitude of less than
a thousand feet, a sea-plane was flying in a
northeasterly direction.  By the markings on her planes
and fuselage--concentric red, white, and blue
circles--Sefton recognized her as a British one.
It afterwards transpired that Sir David Beatty had
ordered the *Engadine* to send up a sea-plane for
reconnaissance work, and that wireless reports were
received from the daring airmen that they had
sighted four hostile light cruisers.  The latter opened
a hot fire with every quick-firer they could get to
bear upon the indomitable sea-plane, the range
being less than 3000 yards, but in spite of the hail
of shrapnel the airmen gained their desired
information and returned to their parent ship.

On board the *Warrior*, as was the case with the
rest of her consorts, hands were hard at work
clearing ship for action.  Already the masts and shrouds
had been "frapped", or protected, by means of wire
cables wrapped round the spars and interlaced
between the standing-rigging.  "A" and "B"
water-tight doors were closed, armoured hatchways
battened down, and hoses led along the decks in order
to quell the fire that would inevitably break out
should a hostile shell burst inside the armoured
belt.  Stanchions, cowls, and all gear likely to
interfere with the training of the guns were
unshipped and stowed, tons of His Majesty's property
were jettisoned, the danger of their remaining on
board being more than sufficient reason for their sacrifice.

Inside the turrets, tubs of water were provided to
slake the burning thirst of the guns' crews, for
experience had proved that the acute mental and
physical strain, coupled with the acrid fumes that
drift into the confined steel spaces, produces an
intense dryness of the mouth and throat.  Behind
the armoured protection, stretcher-bearers and
fire-parties were preparing for their stern work.

Down below, far beneath the water-line, the fleet
surgeon and his staff were getting ready for their
grim yet humane tasks.  Operations have to be
performed under great disadvantages, the complexity
of wounds caused by modern shells adding to the
difficulties under which the medical staff labours.
Contrast an operation in a well-ordered hospital on
shore--where perfect quietude reigns and
everything is conducive to success--with the conditions
on board a war-ship in action.  The indifferent light,
for the electric lamps are quivering under the
vibration of the guns; the deafening concussion
overhead as the ship gives and receives punishment;
the jerky motion of the vessel as she twists and
turns to the rapid movements of the helm and
quivers under the titanic blows of hostile shells;
and the probability of the ship's bottom being
shattered like an egg-shell by a powerful torpedo--all
these form but a part of the disadvantages under
which the naval medical staff labour during the
progress of an action.

Literally imprisoned below the armoured deck,
the grimy stokers were preparing for the coming
ordeal.  Hidden from the rest of the ship's
company, they toiled like Trojans in order to raise such
a terrific head of steam as would make the cruiser
"foot it" at a speed far in excess of her
nominal 22.33 knots.  In action the lot of the "black
squad" is perhaps the worst on board.  Knowing
nothing of what is going on, they have to work
in a confined, heated steel box, shovelling coals
with a dexterity that is the outcome of months of
strenuous training.  Besides the risk of torpedoes
and shells there is ever the danger of the boilers
giving way under the pressure of steam, with the
inevitable result--a horrible death in a pitch-black
stokehold filled with scalding steam.  And yet, for
easygoing joviality and good comradeship the
naval stoker is hard to beat.  He will face
discomforts with a smiling face and a cheerful heart.
He will be ready to risk his life for his chum--or
on the altar of duty.

These thoughts flashed through Sefton's mind
as he watched the rapid and methodical preparation
of clearing ship for action.  For once the sub
realized that he was a mere spectator--a sort of
pariah, dumped from a comparatively insignificant
destroyer upon a cruiser mustering a complement
of over 700 officers and men.  He was aware of
the fact that he was a "deadhead"--an individual
having no right to take part in the forthcoming
contest.  The inaction seemed the worst part of the
business as far as he was concerned.

Presently Sefton's thoughts were interrupted by
the shrill, long-drawn-out trills of the bos'n's
mates' pipes summoning the ship's company to
muster on the quarter-deck.  At the double the
men romped aft--every seaman, marine, stoker, and
"idler" not actually prevented by pressure of duty
elsewhere.

Since the captain could not quit the fore-bridge
the assembled ship's company was addressed by
the commander.  In crisp sentences of simple
brevity he explained to the men the position of
affairs.  At length a big action was in progress, he
announced, for a wireless message had just come in
to the effect that the battle-cruisers were already
engaging the enemy at 18,000 yards--a distance of
nearly 11 land miles.  More than that, the German
Battle Squadron was coming from the nor'ard,
and there was a grave possibility of the British
battle-cruisers being engaged between the enemy
battleships and their battle-cruisers.  In which
case, the commander hastened to explain, losses
would doubtless be severe; but it was part of the
Commander-in-Chief's plan to risk certain of his
battle-cruisers in order to cut off and detain the
German fleet until the British Main Battle Squadrons
got between the enemy and their bases.

"I do not expect that we shall go into action just
at present," concluded the commander, "but should
events shape themselves all right we'll be in the
thick of it before long.  And I have not the faintest
hesitation in expressing my firm belief that every
man jack of us will do his duty to King and
country, and uphold the traditions of H.M.S. *Warrior*."

With that the men were dismissed, and, all
preparations having been made, they were at liberty
until the "Action Stations" sounded.  That interval
was perhaps the most trying of all.  Many of the
ship's company were going into action for the first
time.  The majority were laughing and cutting
jokes; some could be seen with grey, anxious faces
as they thought of their dear ones at home; but
amongst the whole complement there was not
the faintest trace of faint-heartedness.  From the
captain down to the youngest "first-class" boy
the same sentiment held sway: that the *Warrior*
would be able to acquit herself with glory and with
honour.

Through the sultry air could be faintly heard the
distant and constant rumble of heavy gun-firing.
The naval action was developing, although the
engaged portions of the rival fleets were fifty or
sixty miles away.  The subdued noise made a fitting
accompaniment to the stirring words of the commander.

Sefton, still remaining on the quarter-deck, could
not help admiring the steadiness with which the
cruisers kept station.  From time to time hoists of
bunting fluttered to the yard-arm of the flagship
*Defence*, the orders they expressed being carried
out with the utmost celerity and precision.

A lieutenant descending from the after-bridge
passed along the quarter-deck towards the
companion on the half-deck.

"You're out of it, Sefton, I'm afraid," he
remarked.  "We've just had another wireless.  Our
destroyers are giving the Huns socks.  The old
*Calder* is in the thick of it."

"Any losses?" asked Sefton, feeling ready to
kick himself for being out of the scrap.

"Don't know yet," was the reply.  "I only----"

The lieutenant's words were interrupted by the
blare of a bugle.  Turning on his heels he rushed
forward at top speed, for at last the rousing order
"Action at the Double" was given.

In an instant all was a scene of "orderly
confusion", each man running with a set purpose.  For
the most part the crew were stripped to the
waist--a crowd of muscular-armed, deep-chested,
clean-shaven men in the very pink of condition.  Still
exchanging banter, they disappeared to their battle-stations,
eager and alert to let loose a hail of shell
upon the first hostile vessel that came within range.

"Come along, old man," exclaimed the young
sub who had previously "cottoned on" to Jack
Sefton.  "Now's your chance if you want to see the fun."

The two junior officers made their way for'ard,
past the starboard guns in their isolated and
closely-sealed steel turrets, until they reached the
foremast.

"Up with you," said Sefton's companion laconically.

Sefton agilely ascended to the dizzy perch known
as the fire-control platform.  The other sub
followed quickly at his heels, squeezed through the
narrow aperture in the floor of the enclosed space,
and slammed to the metal hinged cover.

"At last!" he exclaimed gleefully.

Sefton only nodded in complete accord.  A clock
on the after side of the steel wall indicated 5.45.  A
glance to the deck a hundred feet below showed no
sign of life.  There was nothing to show that
confined within that double-wedge-shaped hull were
close upon seven hundred human beings, all with
one set purpose, as the thirteen thousand tons of
dead-weight forged ahead at full speed towards a
distant blurr just visible through the ever-varying haze.

Suddenly the *Defence* opened fire with her
for'ard pair of 9.2's, quickly following with her
7.5's.  The ball had opened.

"Fifteen eight hundred, sir," reported one of the
range-finding officers within Sefton's hearing.

Rapidly yet smoothly the *Warrior's* bow guns
rose until Sefton could see their muzzles showing
like oval-shaped cavities against the dull-grey
painted chases.  For a second or two only the
weapons hung seemingly irresolute.

Then with a concussion that shook the ship the
guns sent their missiles hurtling through the air,
while clouds of acrid-smelling smoke, black, white,
and brown in hue, drifted rapidly across the deck.

At last the *Warrior* had her chance--and she was
taking it with a vengeance.




CHAPTER VII--In the Thick of the Fight
======================================

Leaving Sub-lieutenant Jack Sefton on his elevated
perch in the fire-control station, it will be necessary
to follow the fortunes of the vessel from which he
had in theory deserted--the destroyer *Calder*.

Like the rest of the flotillas, the *Calder* had
cleared for action shortly after noon.  Hers was a
far different part from that of the *Warrior*.  There
was practically no protection for her guns' crew
and for the men serving the torpedo-tubes.  Her
conning-tower afforded shelter only from slivers of
steel and the bursting shrapnel; it was vulnerable
to large projectiles.  Relying solely on her speed
and quickness of helm, the destroyer's mission was
to dart in towards the enemy lines and get in as
many hits with her torpedoes as possible.  Then,
if fortunate enough to escape a direct hit from the
German guns, she would have to scurry back to the
shelter of the battle-cruisers, and await another
opportunity to make a further torpedo attack upon
the enemy.

At 3.30 p.m. Beatty's command increased speed
to 25 knots, the Second Battle-cruiser Squadron
forming astern of the First, while a far-flung line of
destroyers took up station ahead.  The course was
now E.S.E., slightly converging upon the enemy,
whose ships, looming with varying degrees of
visibility through the haze, were now at a distance
of a little more than ten sea miles.

Half that distance away the Fifth Battle Squadron,
including the gigantic *Warspite*, was bearing
N.N.W., with the object of supporting the
battle-cruisers when occasion arose.

It was a proud moment for the gallant Beatty
when he realized that now he was between the
enemy battle-cruisers and their North Sea bases;
while there was an ever-increasing possibility that
Jellicoe's main fleet would speedily be in a position
to cut off the German battleships from their retreat
through the Skager-Rack to Kiel.  Yet at the same
time the odds against Beatty were bordering upon
the enormous.  His duty was to engage, entice,
and hold the enemy in a northerly direction without
being overwhelmed by superior force.  Even at the
risk of losing some of his best ships he had to
engage the attention of the enemy, lure them into
the belief that at last the British battle-cruisers had
run into a trap, and hammer away until the
Commander-in-Chief arrived upon the scene with
a vastly superior fleet.

At a quarter to five the opposing forces opened
fire simultaneously at a range of 20,000 yards.  The
*Calder* was keeping station broad on the beam of
the *Queen Mary*, and warding off threatened
submarine attacks, for the time was not yet ripe for the
destroyers to hurl themselves against the battered
hostile ships.

"By Jove, this is going to be 'some' scrap,"
muttered Crosthwaite, as a regular tornado of heavy
shells "straddled" the leading battle-cruisers.

At first the German gunnery was excellent,
several direct hits being received by the British
battle-cruisers, but in a few moments the steady,
rapid, methodical salvoes from the British 13.5's
began to make themselves felt.  Between the
patches of haze, rent by the lurid flashes of the
guns, could be descried the greenish-grey outlines
of the hostile vessels fast being reduced to
scrap-iron.  For the time being all seemed well with the
British battle-cruisers, whose volume of fire was
still being delivered with that terrible regularity
which the Huns have good cause to dread.

Suddenly the huge *Indefatigible* was destroyed;
a gallant battle-cruiser of nearly 19,000 tons had
paid the price of Admiralty.

In previous naval battles such an appalling
catastrophe as the blowing up of a mighty ship
has caused the two fleets spontaneously to cease
fire for a period of some minutes; but in the
Jutland fight, regardless of the fate of the
battle-cruiser, the rest of the squadron redoubled their
efforts.  Not for one second did the hellish din
cease, as the death-dealing salvoes hurtled into
the opposing ships.  To quote the words of one
on board the *Tiger*, it was "a glorified Donnybrook
Fair--whenever you see a head, crack it!"

Twenty minutes later Crosthwaite saw the
*Queen Mary* sunk.  So quickly did she disappear
that the *Tiger*, following astern, passed through
the smoke that marked the grave of the devoted ship.

Beyond, the *Invincible*, already badly hit, sank,
taking with her 750 gallant officers and men.

By this time the Fifth Battle Squadron, which
had been attached to Beatty's command, came into
action, opening fire at 20,000 yards, and although
the pressure of the enemy's predominance in
numbers was considerably relaxed, the danger was
by no means over.  For, in the now thicker haze,
the German battle fleet had arrived upon the
scene, and Beatty was literally betwixt two fires.
Yet he handled his vessels with admirable
strategical and tactical skill, being convinced, as was
every man under him, that in spite of losses he was
succeeding in holding the Huns.

Majestically the four great battleships, *Warspite*,
*Valiant*, *Barham*, and *Malaya*, bore into the mêlée,
each of their 15-inch guns firing with terrible effect.
The head of the German column seemed to be
literally crumpled and crushed.  A large
three-funnelled battleship, possibly the *Thuringien*,
received terrific punishment.  Masts, funnels, turrets,
were blown away piecemeal, until, a mass of smoke
and flames, she hauled off line and was quickly
screened by the smoke from some of the German
destroyers.  Whether she sank--and it seemed as
if she could not do otherwise--Crosthwaite was
unable to determine.  Other German vessels, badly
damaged, were swung out of position, some of
them on fire and showing a tremendous list.

At a quarter to five both fleets altered course
several points, the rival lines turning outwards
and completely reversing their previous direction.
It was at this juncture that the British destroyers
were ordered to take advantage of the confusion
in which the Huns had been thrown and to
launch a torpedo attack upon the battered enemy ships.

"Now for it," thought Crosthwaite, the glint of
battle in his eyes.  It was his chance--a dash in
broad daylight against the quick-firers of the
German vessels.  Never before in the history of
naval warfare had destroyers been ordered to attack
battleships save at night.  Everything depended
upon skill in handling, speed, and the turmoil into
which the enemy had been thrown by the terrific
gun-fire of the battleships of the *Queen Elizabeth* class.

In four columns line ahead the destroyer flotillas
raced off at top speed.  Drawing clear of the
cruisers, they turned 8 points to starboard, a course
that would bring them in contact with the enemy
line.  Thick clouds of fire-tinged smoke belched
from their funnels--not due to bad stoking but to
the deliberate manipulation of the oil-fuel-fed
furnaces, since smoke alone offered any concealment
during the daylight attack.

With a couple of quartermasters, a signalman,
and a messenger to attend to the voice-tubes,
Crosthwaite took up his station within the
conning-tower.  All his mental powers were at work,
and yet he remained perfectly cool and collected.
Hardly a detail that came under his notice of that
onward rush escaped his recollection.

For the first few miles the destroyers kept perfect
station.  Had they been on peace manoeuvres
their relative distances could not have been better
maintained.  Through the eddying, ash-laden
smoke, Crosthwaite strained his bloodshot eyes
upon the destroyer next ahead, ready at the first
sign to reduce speed or swerve should the little
craft be hit or fall out of line.  The possibility
of the *Calder* being "done in" never occurred
to him, once the order had been given to attack.
It was always one of her consorts that might meet
with ill-luck, but Crosthwaite's command--no, never.

Shells were beginning to ricochet from the water
all around the devoted destroyers; yet, seemingly
bearing a charmed life, they held grimly on their way.

More than once the sharp crash of a projectile
exploding astern caused the lieutenant-commander
to turn his head.  Already rents were visible in the
*Calder's* funnels, through which the smoke poured
in long trailing wisps.  By the two tubes the
torpedo-men stood rigidly at attention.  Their two
deadly weapons had been "launched home" and
the tubes trained ten degrees for'ard of the beam.
With his hand upon the firing-trigger the torpedo
coxswain of each end waited, as impassive as if
carved in marble, ready to speed the missile on its
way, and apparently indifferent to the fact that a
sliver of steel striking the deadly warhead would
involve the destroyer and her entire crew in
absolute and instantaneous destruction.

Suddenly the leading destroyer ported helm,
turning so swiftly and listing so excessively that,
for the moment, Crosthwaite thought that she had
received a mortal blow.  Her alert commander had
noticed a suspicious movement amongst the
irregular line of battered German war-ships, now
almost within effective torpedo range.

Out from behind the screen of battleships tore
a German light cruiser and nearly a score of their
ocean-going torpedo-boats.  Whether it was with
the intention of intercepting the British destroyers,
or whether about to launch a torpedo attack upon
Beatty's battle-cruisers, Crosthwaite knew not.  All
he did know was that the rival flotillas were
closing at an aggregate rate of more than a mile a
minute, and that the next few seconds would find
the torpedo-craft mixed up in a most unholy scrap.

All attempts at formation were now cast to the
winds.  Interlining, dodging across each other's
bows, the engaging vessels raced madly to and fro,
their quick-firers barking as rapidly as the gunners
could thrust home the cartridges and clang the
breech-blocks.  So intricate was the manoeuvring
that Crosthwaite saw two German torpedo-boats
collide, and, while in that position, they were raked
by a dozen shells from the *Turbulent*.

Almost the next instant he was aware that a
similar peril threatened the *Calder*, for a British
destroyer, hit in her engine-room, circled
erratically to starboard across her bows.

Gripping the engine-room telegraph-indicator
levers, Crosthwaite rammed them to full speed
astern.  It was his only chance, for he could not
pass either across the bows or astern of the crippled
destroyer without certain risk of colliding with
others of the flotilla.  Then he waited--perhaps
five seconds--in breathless suspense.  Thank God,
the *Calder* began to lose way!  It now remained to
be seen whether she would gather sternway before
her sharp stem crashed into the other destroyer
amidships.

Even as he gripped the levers Crosthwaite saw
the crew of the crippled craft's after 4-inch gun
slew the weapon round to have a smack at the
German vessel that had hit her so badly.  The
gun-layer, pressing his shoulder to the recoil-pad,
bent over the sights.  The next instant a hostile
shell landed fairly upon the 4-inch quick-firer,
bursting with an ear-splitting detonation.

When the smoke had drifted away, the gun was
no longer visible, only a few twisted pieces of
metal marking the spot where the mounting had
stood.  Of the men serving the quick-firer only
one remained--the gun-layer.  By the vagaries of
explosion he was practically unhurt, except for
being partially stunned by the terrible detonation.
For some minutes he stood stock-still, as if unable
to realize that the gun and his comrades had
disappeared; then, making a sudden bound, he leapt
into the sea.  Evidently under the impression that
the vessel was on the point of foundering, he had
decided to swim for it.

Well it was for him that the *Calder* was now
almost motionless, although her propellers were
going hard astern.  Caught by the backwash of
the revolving screws, he was swept past the side
like a cork in a mountain torrent, until one of the
men on the *Calder's* fore-bridge threw him a rope.

As coolly as if mustering for divisions, the
rescued gun-layer made his way aft, and, saluting
the gunner, requested to be allowed to assist in
serving the *Calder's* after 4-inch.

Out from behind a dense cloud of smoke leapt
a German torpedo-boat.  Her commander had
spotted the *Calder* practically without steerage-way,
and had made up his mind to ram, since his own
craft was badly hit and could not keep afloat much
longer.

Quickly Crosthwaite shouted an order.  A torpedo
leapt from the *Calder's* deck and disappeared
with a splash beneath the surface.  Anxiously the
lieutenant-commander watched the ever-diverging
lines that marked the track of the locomotive
weapon.  The target was a difficult one, although
the range was but 200 yards.

The German skipper saw the approaching danger
and attempted to port helm.  Crippled in the steam
steering-gear, the Hun torpedo-boat was slow in
answering.  A column of water leapt 200 feet in
the air; by the time it subsided the hostile craft
was no longer in existence, save as a shattered and
torn hull plunging through nineteen fathoms of
water to her ocean bed.

By this time the German torpedo-craft had had
about enough of it.  At least two of them had been
sunk by German gun-fire, while another pair, their
upper works reduced to a mass of tangled
scrap-iron, had mistaken each other for foes, with the
result that a German destroyer had been sent to
the bottom by a torpedo from her consort.

Turning back, the battered remnants of the Hun
flotilla fled for the shelter of their battle-cruisers.
The path was now clear for the furtherance of the
British destroyers' attack upon the larger vessels of
the hostile fleet; but the difficulties had increased
tenfold owing to the injury of some of the boats,
which were compelled to slacken speed and drop astern.

Yet undaunted, the black-hulled hornets
reformed into some semblance of order, and, under
a galling fire, hurled themselves upon the
formidable array of German battle-cruisers.




CHAPTER VIII--The "Calder's" Second Scoop
=========================================

Of the mad, desperate, and, above all, glorious
race into the gates of a maritime hell Crosthwaite
saw but little beyond his immediate front.  Since
the British destroyers were under the fire of
projectiles ranging from 11-inch downwards, it was
evident that the *Calder's* light-armoured
conning-tower would afford little protection, and if it
were hit by a heavy shell the fate of all within
would be sealed.  So, standing on the starboard
extremity of the bridge, the lieutenant-commander
took his craft into the second phase of the destroyer
attack.

Up to the present not a single British destroyer
had been sunk, although some had been compelled
to retire owing to damage received during their
scrap with the hostile torpedo flotilla; but the good
start in this direction was no longer maintained.

A large destroyer, subsequently identified as the
*Nomad*, was struck by a huge projectile almost
amidships.  A rush of scalding steam, followed by
clouds of smoke, announced that the engine-room
was wrecked, and that the vessel was no longer
under control.

Porting helm, the *Calder* ran past the lee of the
crippled destroyer, the smoke from which
undoubtedly saved Crosthwaite's command from
severe punishment.

For nearly half a mile the *Nomad* carried way,
until she came to a stop between the lines.  The
last Crosthwaite saw of her was the destroyer, still
afloat, maintaining a desultory fire, although a
stationary target for an overwhelming number of
hostile guns.

Suddenly Crosthwaite staggered, hurled sideways
by an invisible force.  The guard-rail, which
he was still gripping, was no longer supported by
the stanchions.  Falling heavily upon the bridge,
he was within an ace of dropping overboard when
a signalman gripped him by the ankles.

The lieutenant-commander regained his feet in
an instant, barely conscious of his narrow escape,
for a 4-inch shell had passed so close to him that
the windage had capsized him.  Crashing aft, the
projectile demolished the short mast supporting the
wireless, hurling the fragments upon the deck.
The White Ensign, which had fluttered from this
masthead during the action, had blown against the
mounting of the after 4-inch gun.  Although little
more than a riddled piece of bunting, it was secured
by one of the men and lashed to the stump of the mast.

Hardly had the dauntless man completed his
self-imposed task when another shell struck the
*Calder* obliquely on the port bow.  Penetrating
the fo'c'sle, it burst with a muffled report, but,
instead of shattering the for'ard part of the destroyer,
it emitted dense clouds of greenish-yellow smoke
that eddied through the shattered plating on the
fore-deck and drifted sullenly aft.

In a second Crosthwaite realized the danger.
The shell had been filled with poisonous gas, and
just at the time when the ship was getting within
torpedo-range, and the men had to direct all their
energies upon loosing the 21-inch weapons, the
asphyxiating fumes threatened to put them, at
least temporarily, out of action.

With his hands clasped to his mouth and nostrils
Crosthwaite awaited the noxious vapour, hoping
that the head wind caused by the rush of the
destroyer through the water would quickly disperse
the poison; but with horrible persistence the deadly
smoke hovered betwixt the various projections on deck.

He was conscious of the quartermaster and the
others on the bridge staggering, with their fingers
frantically gripping their throats.  The signalman
who had previously saved his commanding officer
from falling overboard was writhing in agony,
clawing at whatever came to hand, until in a frenzy
he took a flying leap over the side and sank like a
stone.

Left to herself, the *Calder* began a broad sweep
to starboard.  As she did so, the fumes drifted to
leeward, yet not before the men standing by the
pair of torpedo-tubes were temporarily overcome
by the diabolical product of German *Kultur*.

In vain Crosthwaite attempted to rally the men.
It was either now or never, for, unless the torpedoes
were fired, the opportunity would be gone.  He
tried to shout, but no sound came from his tortured
throat.  Between the eddying clouds of steam and
smoke he could discern the torpedo-men moving
like stupefied bees.

With an effort the lieutenant-commander regained
his voice.  He turned to the quartermaster, who,
although still gasping for breath, had come through
the terrible ordeal with comparatively slight ill-effects.

"Keep her steady on her helm," exclaimed
Crosthwaite, and, literally tumbling down the
bridge ladder, he made his way aft to the torpedo-tubes.

Pushing aside two victims of the poison-gas, one
of them the L.T.O., who lay athwart the racer, the
lieutenant-commander gripped the training-wheel
and slewed the pair of tubes until they were nearly
broad on the beam.  At 2000 yards distance three
large battle-cruisers over-lapped, presenting a
target nearly 1800 feet in length.  To miss such
an objective seemed almost impossible.

With a wrench Crosthwaite dropped the
firing-lever of the right-hand tube.  Through the thin
haze that emerged from the metal cylinder, he
caught a glimpse of the gleaming, steel,
cigar-shaped missile as it leapt clear and disappeared
with a mighty splash beneath the water.  Then,
changing over to the left-hand tube, he sent the
second weapon on its errand of destruction.

A sudden and a totally unexpected swerve of the
ship prevented Crosthwaite from observing the
result of his single-handed efforts.  Instinctively
he realized that his presence was again required on
the bridge.  As he hastened for'ard he almost
collided with Surgeon Stirling, who, in his shirt-sleeves,
had come up from below to aid the sufferers.

Seeing Crosthwaite stagger along with his
features contorted and his complexion showing a
sickly yellow in spite of the tan, the doctor
hurried after him.

"Not this time, Doc," protested the lieutenant-commander
with a wan smile, as he lurched forward.
His brain was whirling under the strain
of the awful ordeal, yet he was dimly conscious
that something was amiss, and that at all costs he
must return to his post.

He was barely in time.  The quartermaster was
huddled in a heap at the base of the steam
steering-gear column with a ghastly wound in his thigh.
The destroyer, left to her own devices, once more
was bearing down upon one of her helpless consorts.

Thrusting the wheel hard over, Crosthwaite
found that the vessel was still under control.
Almost by a hairbreadth she scraped the port
quarter of the crippled destroyer, whose decks were
literally swept by the enemy's fire, and resembled
a charnel-house.  Nothing could be done to save
her, for she was already on the point of foundering.
Of her crew not one visible remained alive.  She
had fought to the death--a typical example of
British pluck and endurance against overwhelming odds.

Her last torpedoes fired, the *Calder* was free to
make good her escape--if she could.  Receiving
a couple of glancing hits as she sped towards the
shelter, she slid past the foremost of the British
battle-cruisers, receiving three hearty cheers from
the crew.

The second phase of the destroyer operations was
over.  Although not so successful as had been
expected, owing to the formation having been
disturbed by the encounter with the German torpedo
flotillas, the dash was not without definite material
gains.  *Nomad* and *Nestor* had not returned, and
were presumed to be sunk, a surmise that
subsequently proved to be correct, since a portion of
their crews were rescued by the German torpedo-craft.

Having brought the *Calder* safely out of the
inferno, Crosthwaite's next step was to take stock
of damages and report to the commander of his
flotilla.

The wireless was by this time again made
serviceable, several of the crew having worked while
under fire on setting up the aerials which had been
carried away with the demolition of the after-mast.

Others were busily engaged in putting patches
on the gaping rents in the funnel casings and
stopping the shell-holes in the thin plating.
Fortunately the engine-room had escaped serious
damage, only two casualties occurring owing to
an auxiliary steam-pipe being severed by a sliver
of shell.

On the whole the *Calder* had come off lightly.
The worst damage to personnel had been caused
by the gas-shell, for, before the fumes had
dispersed, six men had lost their lives and ten others
had been incapacitated by the poisonous fumes.

"She's as fit as ever she was in my department,"
reported Engineer-Lieutenant Boxspanner.
"Hope to goodness we shan't be ordered to haul
out of it."

"I trust not," replied Crosthwaite.  "Must turn
a blind eye to some of the defects, I suppose.
What did it feel like down below?"

Boxspanner shrugged his broad shoulders.  It
was the first time he had been in action, his
appointment to the *Calder* being of recent date.

"It was all right after the first half-minute or
so," replied the engineer-lieutenant.  "The racket
at first was enough to stun a fellow.  I suppose in
this job one can get used to anything.  Where's
Stirling, by the by?"

"Busy," replied Crosthwaite gravely.  "Come
and see him at work--if you can stick it."

Well it was that the Admiralty, with their
customary promptitude to promote the welfare of
the fighting fleet, had lost no time in appointing
scores of probationary assistant surgeons to the
destroyers immediately after the outbreak of
hostilities.  Previously no medical staff had been
carried on these small craft.  A casualty occurring
on board, and accidents in the engine-rooms, were
not of unfrequent occurrence; the patients had to
rely upon the well-meant attentions of their
comrades until they were transferred either to a parent
ship or to one of the shore hospitals.

Dr. "Jimmy" Stirling was a man who took life
seriously.  At times he was almost pessimistic,
although there were occasions when a sudden spirit
of youthful exuberance would take complete
possession of him.

In his shirt-sleeves, and with a blood-stained
apron that an hour previously had been spotlessly
white tied closely under his armpits, the surgeon
was working with deliberate haste, performing a
serious operation at a speed that would have turned
a hospital probationer pale with apprehension.

The confined space which had been turned into
a sick-bay reeked with chloroform and iodoform.
Wounded men were vying with each other in their
efforts to make light of their injuries, whilst those
who were able to smoke aroused the envy of their
less fortunate comrades.  It was considered "good
form" for a patient to utter a rough-and-ready jest
at his own case, while grim, but none the less
sympathetic, words were bestowed upon their nearest
fellow-sufferers.  It was a curious physiological
fact that a man who would have raved at a careless
comrade for having accidentally dropped some
gear, narrowly missing his head, greeted the
information that he would lose his right arm with
the nonchalant remark: "Anyhow, when I get
home on leaf my missus can't make me dig the
bloomin' allotment."

"Let's get out of this, sir," whispered the
engineer-lieutenant.  "Thought it would take a lot
to capsize me, but, by Jove----!"

He backed abruptly, followed by the lieutenant-commander.
Stirling, deep in his task, had not
noticed their presence.

A barefooted signalman, his blackened face and
scorched and torn singlet bearing testimony to his
part in the "scrap", pattered along the shell-pitted
deck, and, saluting, tendered a signal-pad to his
commanding officer.

Crosthwaite took the paper and read the message
scrawled thereon in violet pencil.

"H'm!" he muttered.  "S'pose they want us out of it."

It was an order to the effect that the *Calder* was
to steam to a certain rendezvous, fall in with one
of the parent ships, transfer wounded, and await
further orders.  There seemed very little
possibility of the destroyer participating in the night
attack upon the German fleet--an operation in
which the swiftly-moving British vessels might
achieve greater results, even if they failed to
surpass the glory they had already acquired by their
wild, tempestuous dash in broad daylight.

"Almost wish I'd let the damaged wireless go
for a bit," mused Crosthwaite as he made his way
to the badly-shattered bridge.




CHAPTER IX--The "Warrior's" Gallant Stand
=========================================

"What do you think we are up against?" asked
Sefton, taking advantage of a lull in the firing to
put the question to his companion in the fire-control
station.

"Something big," replied the other, wiping a
thin layer of coal dust and particles of burnt cordite
from the lenses of his binoculars.  "With this
rotten mist hanging around, one has to be jolly
careful not to pitch a salvo into one of our own
craft.  Wish to goodness I'd remembered to bring
my camera along.  By Jove!  Wouldn't the old
*Defence* make a fine picture when she opened fire?"

"I'll fetch it for you," volunteered Sefton.

His companion looked at him in astonishment.

"I mean it," continued the sub.  "We won't be
in action again for quite ten minutes, unless those
Huns take it into their heads to alter course--which
I don't fancy will be at all likely."

He pointed to five faint objects scurrying farther
away through the patches of haze.  They were
German light cruisers, which, having had a taste
of the salvoes of the leading ships of the First
Cruiser Squadron, had thought it prudent to sheer off.

"Then look slippy, old bird," said the other.
"I'm rather keen on getting the thing; I'd go
myself if I were not here on duty with a capital D.
I'll pass the word for the covers to be left open for
your return."

Gaining the shrouds, Sefton descended cautiously,
for already fragments of exploding shells had cut
through several of the wire strands, and had played
havoc with the ratlines.

Gaining the fore-bridge, he descended the ladder
to the superstructure, and, passing in the wake of
the trained-abeam turrets, reached the only
hatchway leading to the main deck that had not been
closed with an armoured lid.

'Tween decks the air was hot and oppressive.
The confined space reeked with cordite fumes.
Through the brown haze a streak of yellow light
played upon the deck--a beam of sunlight entering
through a jagged shell-hole in the ship's side.

Farther along, a party of sick-bay men were
lowering a stretcher through a hatchway.  On the
stretcher was strapped a wounded petty officer, one
of whose legs had been shattered below the knee.

The man was struggling violently, and expostulating
in no mild terms.  Ignorant of his terrible
injuries, he was insisting on being allowed to
return to his station and "have another smack at
the Huns".

"Can't go no farther this way, sir," announced
a marine, recognizing the sub, and knowing that
he was new to the ship.  "Bulkhead doors are
shut.  There's a way round past the issue-room,
sir, down this 'ere ladder."

The "issue-room" was open.  An electric lamp
illuminated the irregular-shaped space, which on
one side was bounded by the convex base of the
after turret, a 6-inch wall of hard steel.

Sefton could hear voices raised in loud and
vehement argument: two assistant ship's stewards
were discussing the respective merits of music-hall
favourites.

A third voice joined in the discussion--that of
one of the ship's boys.

"'Taint neither the one or t'other," he began.
"I was a-saying----"

"Then don't say it, but get on with your job,"
interrupted the first speaker.  "Those casks look
a regular disgrace.  You haven't polished the
brasswork for more'n three days, and it's captain's
rounds to-morrow."

The next instant came a regular avalanche of
flour-sacks, casks, copper measures, and other
paraphernalia pertaining to the ship's steward's
department.  Across the raised coaming of the doorway
tripped the three occupants of the issue-room,
landing in a struggling, confused heap at Sefton's feet.

From a distance of nearly nine miles an 11-inch
shell had hit the *Warrior* abreast of the after turret.
It was some little time before it was realized that
the damage was slight.

The first to pick himself up was the ship's
steward's boy.

"Guess you don't want me to carry on with that
there polishing job," he remarked nonchalantly, as
he heaved the winded petty officer to his feet and
indicated the debris of the brass-bound casks.

Sefton lost no time in fetching the camera from
the gun-room.  Slinging it round his neck, he
gained the upper deck, and began his ascent to
the fire-control platform.

"Thanks," said his companion, as the sub
handed the precious apparatus to him.  "You're
only just in time.  Those light cruisers have altered
helm 16 points.  Looks fishy, by Jove!  They've
something behind them to back them up."

It was now nearly six o'clock.  Already the
*Defence* was hurling shells at the leading German
light cruiser at 14,000 yards, the range momentarily
decreasing as the two squadrons closed.

The Huns were certainly not devoid of pluck,
although, as Sefton's chum had remarked, they
evidently had some card up their sleeves.

For the next fifteen minutes the *Warrior* and
her consorts were at it "hammer and tongs",
directing a furious fire into the head of the
approaching column.  One of the hostile cruisers,
hit by a double salvo from the *Warrior* and the
*Defence*, capsized and sank.  Another, burning
fiercely in three different places, hauled out of line.

"Great sport, isn't it?" exclaimed Sefton's
companion, setting down his range-finder, for the
distance had now decreased to 5000 yards, so that
the gun-layers were able to trace their weapons
independently of orders from the fire-control.

Suddenly and unexpectedly a salvo of heavy
shells hurtled through the haze, and, with deadly
precision, riddled the flagship *Defence* through
and through.  Her masts and funnels went by the
board, flames burst from her for'ard, 'midships, and
aft, while with her engines disabled she dropped
slowly astern.

It was now the *Warrior's* turn to lead the line.
As she forged ahead, other enormous shells
straddled her, coming in different direction from
the tempest of shot that had crippled the *Defence*.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Sefton.  "We're in for it now."

Between the drifting clouds of smoke could be
discerned the huge shapes of a dozen large battleships
and battle-cruisers, not those of Jellicoe's
command, but flying the Black Cross ensign of
Germany.  On the port side, at less than 4000
yards, were four hostile battle-cruisers.  At a
similar distance to starboard were at least five
battleships of the *König* class.

The *Warrior* and *Defence*, hemmed in by vastly
superior numbers, and menaced by guns of far
greater calibre, were seemingly doomed to
annihilation.  All that remained, as far as human
judgment went, was to fight to the last and worthily
uphold the glorious traditions of the Senior Service.

The *Warrior* held grimly on her way, battered
fore and aft on all sides from the gradually
contracting circle of big German ships.  In spite of
the terrific hail of projectiles rained upon her, the
*Warrior* still maintained a rapid and determined
fire.  It was against overwhelming odds, and the
Huns knew it.

Presently a violent thud caused the already
trembling fire-control platform to shake to such
an extent that Sefton quite thought the whole
concern was about to tumble over the side.  A shell
had shattered the fore-topmast, the debris falling
athwart the steel canopy protecting the range-finding
officers.  With the topmast came a raffle
of gear, including the wireless aerials.

By this time the cruiser was hulled over and
over again.  Several of her 7-inch-gun turrets had
been bodily swept away with their crews; two
funnels had gone by the board; the remaining
pair, perforated like sieves, were held in position
merely by the wire guys.  A fierce fire was raging
aft, an incendiary shell having landed in the
wardroom, while a heavy dose of poison-gas prevented
any of the crew from attempting to quench the flames.

Twelve minutes of terrible battering the *Warrior*
stood, until an 11-inch shell, ripping through her
6-inch armoured belt, burst inside the port
engine-room, shattering the main steam-pipe.

The scene in the confined space was terrible
beyond description.  The concussion had shattered
every electric lamp, the oil ones were extinguished
by the noxious fumes.  The floor of the engine-room
was flooded to a depth of four inches with
scalding water that surged to and fro with each
roll of the sorely-pressed vessel, and added to the
torments of the men already wounded by the shell
explosion.

Yet even in that inferno there were men whose
courage did not desert them, and dozens of heroic
and never-to-be-recorded deeds were performed in
the darkness of the scalding engine-room.

Then the starboard engine-room was swept by
the explosion of a shell, increasing to a terrible
extent the casualties amongst the courageous
"black squad".  For nearly two miles the
*Warrior* carried away, until, deprived of the means of
propulsion, she lay, a battered hulk, surrounded
by her enemies.

It was the story of the *Revenge* over again, but
with a different sequel.

Sefton realized that he and his companions were
virtually prisoners in the fire-control platform.
Even had they dared to risk descending through
that tornado of shrapnel and flying slivers of
molten steel, their means of escape was limited to
one solitary shroud.  The rest, "whipped" into
a confused tangle, were trailing over the ship's sides.

Passive spectators, for their work aloft was done,
they awaited the end, their eyes fixed upon the
German battle-cruisers as at intervals they became
visible through the drifting cloud of smoke and steam.

Only two guns of the *Warrior* were now replying
to the hostile fire, barking slowly, yet resolutely,
as they sent their projectiles hurtling through the
air at the nearmost of the assailants, now but 3500
yards distant.

"By Jove, look!" exclaimed Sefton's chum,
pointing with a bandaged hand at a large object
looming through the smoke close under the
*Warrior's* stern.

It was the gigantic battleship *Warspite*.

Tearing along at well over her contract speed,
the 27,500-ton leviathan meant business.  Receiving
a salvo of heavy shells that were intended to
administer a *coup de grâce* to the crippled *Warrior*,
and which for the most part rebounded harmlessly
from her armour, the *Warspite* let rip with her
splendid 15-inch guns.  At the second salvo a
German battle-cruiser simply crumpled up and
vanished in a cloud of smoke.

Pitted for the first time in this particular
engagement against guns of more than their own calibre,
the Germans began to fire most erratically.  Many
of the projectiles fell into the sea.  Their shooting,
hitherto fairly accurate, became wild and
spasmodic.  They were learning the truth about modern
British gunnery, with British hearts of oak behind
the powerful weapons.

But, in spite of her size and superiority of
armament, the *Warspite* did not come off unscathed.
At a critical moment her steam steering-gear
jammed, and round she circled, straight for the
enemy's line.  Before the damage could be
rectified she was hit several times, losing, amongst
other gear, her wireless aerials.  While she was
still under fire a hostile submarine let off a couple
of torpedoes, both of which fortunately missed
their mark.

The action had already passed away from the
battered *Warrior*.  She had played her part.  It
remained to save herself from foundering, if she
could--a truly herculean task.




CHAPTER X--Battered but Unconquered
===================================

Almost as in a dream Sefton realized that he was
still alive.  His hearing was practically done for,
owing to the terrific detonation of the guns.  His
eyes were red and smarting from the effects of
numerous particles of soot and dust that had
drifted in through the sighting apertures of the
fire-control station.  He could scarcely speak, his
throat was parched and gripped by a terrible thirst.
His borrowed uniform was rent in several places,
while the right leg of his trousers was warm and
moist.  Unknown to him, a splinter of metal had
cut a clean gash just above the knee.  In the
excitement of the action he had not felt the wound.
Now it was beginning to throb painfully.

"The stick will go by the board before long,"
remarked an officer, as the crippled foremast gave
a sickening jerk with the roll of the ship to
starboard.  "The sooner we get out of this the better,
I fancy."

It was easier said than done.  Even if the
attention of the men on deck--and they were busily
engaged with hoses in quelling the numerous small
outbreaks of fire amidships--could be attracted, it
was wellnigh impossible to form a means of
communication with the elevated masthead platform.

"Worth risking it?" queried Sefton's chum,
indicating the solitary shroud on either side of the
mast.

The sub shook his head.

"A tall order," he replied.  "I don't seem to
have the strength of a steerage rat for a swarm-down
from this height.  No thanks, I'm not taking any."

"If we had only a coil of signal halyard,"
remarked the range-finding officer tentatively,
"we might----  But there isn't a couple of
fathoms of line left aloft."

He thrust his head and shoulders through a hole
in the steel plating, and surveyed the scene 100 feet
below.  Viewed from that dizzy height, the prospect
of descending by means of a wire stay was not
inviting.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed.  "There's a bluejacket
swarming aloft."

"Bluejacket" was hardly a strictly correct
description, for climbing hand over hand was a man
clad only in a pair of canvas trousers.  From his
waist upwards he was stripped.  His feet, too,
were bare.  His bronzed face, neck, and hands
stood out in vivid contrast to the whiteness of the
rest of the skin.  His muscles, like whipcord,
rippled as he ascended with a steady, even
movement towards the isolated foretop.  From his belt
trailed a line the coils of which were being
carefully "paid out" by a seaman standing on the
extremity of the badly-damaged fore-bridge.

Half-way up the shroud the climber paused to
regain his breath.  As he threw back his head to
gauge the remaining distance, his face was revealed
to the group on the swaying platform.

"By George!" ejaculated Sefton's chum.  "It's
the man you went into the ditch after."

It was Able Seaman Brown.  Having lost touch
with his officer during the engagement, his first
thoughts after the *Warrior* had ceased fire were for
the sub who had risked his life on his behalf.
Enquiries elicited the information that Sefton had
been last seen while ascending to the fire-control
platform.

"Blow me if they ain't properly cut off," muttered
the man, as he eyed the precarious perch.  "Here goes."

Obtaining the consent of one of the officers to
attempt his perilous ascent, A.B. Brown was now
well on his way to establish communication with
the deck.

Perspiring from every pore, his muscles creaking
under the strain, the horny palms of his hands
lacerated by the frayed strands of the wire, the
seaman at length gained one of the angle-girders
upon which the platform was bolted.  Here he
remained for fully five minutes before essaying
the last part of his journey.

Hanging from the metal structure was a block,
from which the running-gear had long since
"rendered through".  The man examined it critically.
To all outward appearance it seemed to be sound.

Jockeying himself along the sharp-edged angle-plate,
Brown rove the end of the rope through the
block, and "paid out" until the line touched the
deck.  Fortunately there was enough to spare.
Three or four of the *Warrior's* crew were standing
by to give assistance, and quickly bent a "bos'n's
chair" to one end of the rope.

"Come along, sir," exclaimed the A.B. encouragingly.
"We'll have the lot of you down in a jiffy."

He held out his hand to steady Sefton on his
dizzy journey along the metal "bracket", until a
sudden thought flashed across his mind.  What if
the rope carried away or the pulley-block was
defective?

"Hold on, sir," he said.  "I'll show you the way down."

He signalled for the bos'n's chair to be sent
aloft, reflecting that if the appliance were strong
enough to bear his weight--he could give Sefton
nearly a couple of stones--the sub would run very
little risk.  If, on the other hand, the gear carried
away, he reflected grimly, his "number would be up".

Sliding into the wooden seat, the A.B. motioned
to his comrades to lower.  Handsomely the men
paid out the comparatively frail rope until Brown's
bare feet came in contact with the bridge planking.

Five minutes later, the three seamen who had
been attending to the voice-tubes in the fire-control
station were lowered into safety, in spite of the fact
that one was in a semi-conscious condition owing
to a shrapnel wound in his head.

Sefton was the next to descend, after a spirited
argument with his brother sub on the etiquette of
seniority, until the lieutenant settled his subordinate's
dispute by declaring that Sefton was a guest,
and that the question of precedence did not hold
good in present circumstances.

At length all the occupants of the fire-control
platform were lowered in safety.  Barely had the
lieutenant gained the deck when Sefton's companion
gave vent to an exclamation of annoyance.

"Dash it all!" he exclaimed.  "I clean forgot
all about that camera.  Here goes."

Slipping into the bos'n's chair he made the
men haul away for all they were worth, and,
spinning round at the end of the rope, the *Warrior's*
sub again ascended to the dizzy, insecure perch.

Sefton watched him disappear into the recesses
of the enclosed space, presently to reappear with
the precious camera dangling round his neck.

"Wouldn't have lost it for anything," remarked
the young officer as he regained the fore-bridge.
"I've knocked about with it ever since I was at
Osborne, you know."

"Take anything during the action?" enquired Sefton.

"By Jove, no, I didn't!  Clean forgot all about it."

"And I fancy, old bird, you won't again,"
interposed an assistant paymaster, vainly attempting
to "open out" the folding camera.  "It's done for."

Which was only too true.  A fragment of shell
had penetrated the case, reducing the delicate
mechanism to a complete wreck.

"Look out!  Stand clear!" shouted a dozen voices.

With a rending crash the crippled mast buckled
up and disappeared over the side.

Sefton glanced at his chum.  The imperturbable
sub shrugged his shoulders.

"Better to be born lucky than rich, old man," he
remarked.  "But, by heavens, what a jamboree!"

He could find no other words to describe the
scene of destruction.  Now that the ship was out
of action, and the excitement of the titanic struggle
was over, the grim realization of what a naval
engagement means was beginning to reveal itself to
the survivors of the gallant crew.

All the fires had been extinguished, with the
exception of the big outbreak aft.  Gangs of men
toiled desperately at the hand-pumps with a double
purpose.  The *Warrior* was making water freely.
Already her stokeholds and engine-rooms were
flooded.  Deprived of the aid of her powerful steam
bilge-pumps it seemed doubtful if the hand
appliances would be able to cope with the steady inrush.
Moreover, a considerable volume of water had to be
directed upon the fire.

Officers with blackened faces and scorched
uniforms encouraged the men by word and deed.  At
whatever cost the *Warrior* had to be saved from
foundering if human efforts were capable of such
a herculean task.  Undaunted, the crew toiled
manfully, fighting fire and water at one and the
same time.

Already the dead had been identified and given
a hasty, yet impressive, burial, while--an ominous
sign--the wounded had been brought up from
below and laid in rows upon the upper deck.  It
was a necessary precaution, and clearly indicated
the grave possibility of the old *Warrior* being
unable to battle much longer against the
ever-increasing leaks.

There was now plenty of work for Sefton to do.
Placed in charge of one of the fire-parties he was
soon strenuously engaged in fighting the
conflagration.  With the flooding of the after magazine
all danger of an explosion was now at an end, but,
unless the flames were speedily quelled, the
possibility of foundering would be materially increased,
since several shell-holes betwixt wind and water had
occurred in that part of the ship still dominated by
the outbreak.

Although no doubt existed in the minds of the
*Warrior's* crew as to the outcome of the general
engagement, they were in suspense owing to a total
lack of news.  Without wireless they were debarred
from communication with the rest of the squadron.
As helpless as a log, the battered vessel was
floating in the vast expanse of the North Sea without
a single vessel in sight.  The roar of the battle had
rolled on far to the nor'ard, and although the
incessant rumble of the terrific cannonade was
distinctly audible, the *Warrior* was as ignorant of the
course of events as if she had been a hundred
miles away.

The almost flat calm had given place to sullen
undulations rippled by a steady breeze that
threatened before long to develop into a hard blow.
There was every indication of an angry sea before
nightfall.

An hour had elapsed since the *Warrior* had
ceased firing--sixty minutes of strenuous exertion
on the part of all hands--when a vessel was sighted
apparently steaming in the crippled cruiser's direction.

For some moments suspense ran high, for
whether the strange craft were friend or foe no one
on board could give a definite decision.

"What do you make of her?" enquired Sefton's
chum as the two young officers stood under the
lee of a partly demolished gun-turret.

"Precious little," replied Sefton.  "Can't say
that I am able to recognize her.  But in these times,
with a new vessel being added to the navy every
day, one can hardly be expected to tell every ship
by the cut of her jib."

"She might be a Hun," said the *Warrior's* sub.
"One that has got out of her bearings and is just
sniffing round to see what damage she can do.
Hallo!  There's 'Action Stations'."

The *Warrior* was taking no unnecessary risks.
She was still in a position to bite, although at a
terrible disadvantage if opposed to an active and
mobile foe.  Gamely her war-worn men doubled
off to the light quick-firers, three rousing cheers
announcing the fact that, although badly battered,
the gallant British seamen knew not the meaning
of the word surrender.

Nearer and nearer came the mysterious vessel.
She was by no means moving at the rate of a
light-cruiser, her speed being about 15 knots.  She flew
three ensigns on various parts of her rigging,
but, being end on and against the wind, the colours
could not be distinguished.

Presently she ported helm slightly.  Another
roar of cheering burst from the throats of the
*Warrior's* men, for now the colours were
discernible.  They were not the Black Cross of
Germany--a counterfeit presentment of the White Ensign--but
the genuine article--the British naval ensign.

Simultaneously a hoist of bunting ascended to
the signal yard-arm.  A hundred men could read
the letters, but the jumble conveyed nothing to
them.  Not until the code-book was consulted could
the vessel's identity be made known.

"*Engadine*, sir," replied the chief yeoman of
signals.  "Sea-plane carrier, that's what she is,"
he confided in an undertone to another petty officer
standing by his side.

A lengthy exchange of semaphore by means of
hand-flags ensued, for other methods of communication
on the part of the *Warrior* were impossible,
owing to the clean sweep of everything on deck.

And now, in the rapidly rising sea, preparations
were made for taking the crippled *Warrior* in tow.
Already the cruiser's stern was well down, and,
badly waterlogged, she would prove a handful for
a powerfully-engined craft to tow, let alone the
lightly-built *Engadine*.

But Lieutenant-Commander C. A. Robinson of
the sea-plane ship *Engadine* knew his business, and
handled his vessel with superb skill.  Thrice he
manoeuvred sufficiently close to establish
communication between his ship and the drifting *Warrior*,
Twice the flexible wire hawser parted like pack-thread.
At the third attempt the hawsers held, and
the *Warrior* slowly gathered way, wallowing astern
of the *Engadine* at a rate of 4 knots--but every
minute was taking the unvanquished cruiser nearer
Britain's shores.

By this time all on board knew that their sacrifice
had not been in vain.  Jellicoe was known to have
effected a junction with Beatty's hard-pressed
squadrons, the German High Seas Fleet was in
flight, and betwixt them and their North Sea bases
was the invincible Grand Fleet.  "The Day" had
proved to be a day of reckoning for the boastful
Huns in their efforts to wrest the trident from
Britannia's grasp.




CHAPTER XI--The Wrecked Sea-plane
=================================

With her stock of torpedoes replenished and certain
defects made good, H.M.T.B.D. *Calder* sheered off
from her parent ship, and, increasing speed to 21
knots, shaped a course to rejoin the rest of the
flotilla.

Lieutenant-Commander Richard Crosthwaite was
in high spirits.  He thought that he had succeeded
in bluffing the commodore to give his permission
to rejoin the rest of the fleet instead of being ordered
back to the Firth of Forth.  As a matter of fact, his
senior officer, realizing that a "stout heart goes a
long way", had purposely refrained from asking
a lot of awkward questions concerning the *Calder's*
injuries.  In the forthcoming and projected night
attack every destroyer available would be needed to
put the fear of the British navy into the minds of
the Huns and 21-inch torpedoes into the vitals of
their battleships.

The spirit of the *Calder's* skipper was shared by
every member of the crew.  Even the wounded
showed reluctance to be transferred to the parent
ship; those whose injuries did not prevent them
from getting about sturdily asserting that they
might be of use.  Those obliged to take to their
hammocks were emphatic in impressing upon their
more fortunate comrades the request "to get their
own back".

The sun was low in the north-western sky when
the *Calder's* look-out men sighted two vessels
slowly making their way in the direction of home.
One, evidently badly damaged, was in tow of the other.

It was part of the destroyer's duty to investigate,
since it might be possible that the vessels were
hostile craft endeavouring by making a wide detour
to reach their base.

A wireless message, in code, was sent from the
*Calder*, requesting the two vessels to disclose their
identity.  The reply left Crosthwaite no longer in
doubt.  The towing ship was the *Engadine*, while
the crippled craft wallowing in her wake was the
heroic *Warrior*.

It was Crosthwaite's opportunity to regain the
services of his sub-lieutenant if the latter had been
lucky enough to escape from the terrible gruelling
to which the British cruiser had been subjected.

Closing to within a cable's length of the *Warrior*
he signalled:

"Request permission to take off my sub-lieutenant."

To which the *Warrior* replied:

"Permission granted, provided no needless risk
to His Majesty's ships."

Crosthwaite smiled grimly.  The idea of further
damage being done to the *Warrior* seemed out of
the question, while he considered he was quite
capable of bringing the *Calder* alongside without
denting a single plate.

Ordering "easy ahead", Crosthwaite brought
the *Calder* close alongside the *Warrior's* port
quarter.  Although the sea was now running high,
and the waves were breaking over the latter's almost
submerged quarter-deck, it was comparatively
calm under her lee.

"There's your glorified Thames penny steamer
alongside, old man," remarked Sefton's chum as
the *Calder* was made fast fore and aft, her deck
being little more than a couple of feet below that of
the cruiser--so low had the latter settled aft.  "No,
don't trouble to return my coat.  It's positively not
respectable for the quarter-deck.  Well, so long!
I'll run across you again before this business is
over, I guess."

Scrambling over the debris, from which smoke
was still issuing in faint bluish wisps, Sefton gained
the armoured cruiser's side.  Poising himself for
an instant he leapt on the *Calder's* deck, followed
by Able Seaman Brown.

.. _`"POISING HIMSELF FOR AN INSTANT, SEFTON LEAPT ON THE 'CALDER'S' DECK"`:

.. figure:: images/img-128.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "POISING HIMSELF FOR AN INSTANT, SEFTON LEAPT ON THE 'CALDER'S' DECK"

   "POISING HIMSELF FOR AN INSTANT, SEFTON LEAPT ON THE 'CALDER'S' DECK"

"Can I be of any assistance, sir?" enquired
Crosthwaite from the bridge of the destroyer.

The commanding officer of the *Warrior* returned
the salute and shook his head.  He was loath to
detain even one destroyer from the fighting that
yet remained to be done.

Amid the cheers of both crews the *Calder* sheered
off, and, porting helm, resumed her course, while
the *Warrior*, in tow of the *Engadine*, was confronted
with the approach of night and a steadily-increasing
rough sea.

The badly-damaged *Warrior* never reached port.
After being towed for twelve hours, her position
became so serious that the sea-plane carrier hove
alongside and removed her crew.

Giving three cheers for the old ship, as the
*Engadine*, abandoning her tow, increased the
distance between her and the *Warrior*, the gallant
crew watched the battered hulk rolling sullenly in
the angry sea until she was lost sight of in the
distance.

Having formally reported himself, Sefton went
below to make up arrears of sleep.  Boxspanner
and the doctor were in the ward-room, both engaged
in animated conversation, not upon the subject of
the action, but on the merits and demerits of
paraffin as a substitute for petrol for a motor-bicycle.

With disjointed fragments of conversation ringing
in his ears, and "carburation", "sooty deposit
in the sparking plug", and "engine-knock" figuring
largely, Sefton fell into a fitful slumber, dreaming
vividly of the stirring incidents of the past few
hours, until he was aroused by the reversal of the
destroyer's engines, the lightly-built hull quivering
under the strain.

Instinctively he glanced at the clock.  He had
been asleep only ten minutes--it seemed more like
ten hours by the length of his excited mental visions.

Leaping from his bunk, Sefton scrambled into
his clothes and hurried on deck.  It was still
twilight.  The wind was moaning through the aerials;
splashes of spray slapped the destroyer's black
sides as she lost way and fell off broadside on to
the waves.

Fifty yards to leeward was a large British
sea-plane.  She was listing at a dangerous angle, her
starboard-float being waterlogged, and showing
only above the surface as the fabric heeled in the
trough of the sea.  Her planes were ripped in
twenty places, while the fuselage showed signs of
having been hit several times.  The tip of one
blade of the propeller had been cut off as cleanly
as if by a knife.  All around her the water was
iridescent with oil that had leaked from her
lubricating-tanks.  Waist-deep in water, and sitting
athwart the undamaged float, was the pilot--a
young sub-lieutenant, whose face was blanched
with the cold.  He had voluntarily adopted his
position in order to impart increased stability to
the damaged sea-plane.

Lying on the floor of the fuselage, with his head
just visible above the coamings, was the observer.
He had discarded his flying-helmet, while round his
head was bound a blood-stained scarf.  Evidently
his wound was of a serious nature, for he evinced
no interest in the approach of the *Calder*.

As the destroyer drifted down upon the crippled
sea-plane a dozen ready hands gripped the top of
one of the wings, and a couple of seamen swarmed
along the frail fabric to the chassis.

The rescue of the pilot was a comparatively easy
matter, but it took all the skill of the bluejackets to
extricate the wounded observer.  It was not until
others of the crew came to the aid of their comrades,
the men in their zeal almost completing the
submergence of the still floating wreckage, that the
unconscious officer was brought on board.

There was no time to waste in salvage operations.
At an order from the lieutenant-commander a
seaman, armed with an axe, made his way to the
undamaged float.  A few vigorous blows completed
the work of destruction.  Held by the tip of one of
the wings until the man regained the destroyer, the
sea-plane was allowed to sink.

"Rough luck to chuck away an engine like that,"
remarked a voice regretfully.

Sefton turned his head and saw that the speaker
was Engineer-Lieutenant Boxspanner, and for once
at least Dr. Stirling agreed with him.

The rescue of the sea-plane's crew threw
additional work upon the already harassed surgeon,
for the observer was showing signs of collapse,
while upon examination it was found that the
pilot had been hit in the forehead by a shrapnel bullet.

Pulling himself together, the observer managed
to impart important information before he fainted
through sheer exhaustion.  The sea-plane had
sighted the main German fleet fifty miles to the
nor'-nor'-east.

The intelligence was highly desirable.  It settled
without doubt the all-important question as to the
enemy's whereabouts, and definitely proved that
Jellicoe's ships were between the Huns and their
North Sea bases.  If steps could be taken to
intercept the German vessels' retreat through the
Cattegat, it seemed as if they were doomed to annihilation
at the hands of the British.

Quickly the news was wirelessed from the *Calder*
to the *Iron Duke*.  Unless anything unforeseen
occurred, it seemed pretty certain that Admiral
Jellicoe would be able to turn the initial advantage
into an overwhelming defeat for the enemy.

The two airmen had rendered good service
against considerable odds.  They had ascended
three hours previously, and, flying low in order to
be able to see through the haze, had eventually
sighted the badly-damaged German squadron
under Rear-Admiral von Scheer, which had
contrived to slip away while Admiral Hipper was
endeavouring to delay the advance of Jellicoe's
main fleet.

Owing to the low degree of visibility, the
seaplane came within range of the hostile quick-firers
almost before her pilot was aware of the unpleasant
fact.  Greeted by a hot fire, almost the first shell
of which carried away the wireless, the sea-plane
ascended, trusting to be hidden in the clouds until
she could volplane from another direction and
renew her reconnaissance of the hostile fleet.

Unfortunately, it was a case of "out of the
saucepan into the fire", for on emerging above the
low-lying bank of clouds the sea-plane found herself
almost underneath a Zeppelin, several of which
accompanied the German fleet, although their
sphere of usefulness was considerably curtailed by
reason of the climatic conditions.  Although the
haze prevented the British from inflicting greater
damage upon their opponents, it is fairly safe to
assert that had the sky been clear the Zeppelins
would have given the German fleet timely
warning, and an action would never have ensued.

Nothing daunted, the British sea-plane opened
fire upon her gigantic antagonist; but the odds
were against her.  The Zeppelins, floating
motionless in the air and in perfect silence, had long
before heard the noisy approach of the mechanical
hornet, and her appearance was greeted with a
concentrated fire of half a dozen machine guns,
accompanied by a few choice titbits in the shape
of bombs.

The latter, without exception, missed their
objective, but the hail of bullets ripped the sea-plane
through and through and dangerously wounded
her observer.  In spite of the riddled state of the
planes the pilot kept his craft well under control,
but was forced to descend, not before the Zeppelin
was showing signs of having been much damaged
by the sea-plane's automatic gun.  The last the
airmen saw of her was that she was making off at
full speed in an easterly direction, her stern portion
dipping ominously in spite of the quantity of
ballast hurled overboard by her crew.

The British air-craft's long volplane terminated
on the surface of the sea miles from the place where
she had "spotted" the hostile ships.  Before long
the pilot made the disconcerting discovery that one
of the floats was leaking.  Having bandaged his
unfortunate comrade's wound, he slipped over the
side of the fuselage on to the damaged float.
Failing to locate and stop the leak, he took up his
position on the sound float, in the hope that his
weight would preserve the sea-plane's stability.  In
this position he remained for two hours, until,
numbed by the cold, he was on the point of
abandoning hope when the *Calder* hove in sight.

The sun had set when the *Calder* rejoined the
flotilla.  The enemy was entirely out of sight, but
there was every possibility of the German torpedo-boats
making a night attack upon the long line of
battleships.

Every precaution was taken against such a step.
The battleships and battle-cruisers were encircled
by a line of light cruisers, while beyond them, and
mostly between the British fleet and the reported
position of the German ships, was a numerous
gathering of destroyers for the dual part of
protecting the larger ships and also, when opportunity
occurred, of making a dash against the Huns.

"Mark my words, Sefton," said Lieutenant-Commander
Crosthwaite when the *Calder*, having
transferred the two airmen, had taken up her
allotted station, "to-night's the night.  We'll have
the time of our lives."




CHAPTER XII--The Night Attack
=============================

Just before midnight two columns of destroyers
in line ahead slipped away in the darkness, the
course being N. 42° E.  Without showing so much
as a glimmer of light, with their funnels screened
with "spark arresters" to prevent the exit of
glowing embers from the furnaces, the long, lean craft
headed in the supposed direction of the enemy fleet.

From the elevated fore-bridge Sefton could scarce
distinguish betwixt the *Calder's* bows and the dark,
heavy waves.  The only guide to enable the
destroyer to keep station was the phosphorescent
swirl at the stern of the vessel next ahead, as her
triple propellers churned the water.

On deck the men were at the battle-stations,
standing motionless and silent.  Their faces had
been blackened with burnt cork to render them
as inconspicuous as possible should the beam of
a hostile search-light swing itself athwart their vessel.

Although the high-raised fo'c'sle of the *Calder*
was comparatively dry, showers of spray cast aside
by the flaring bows were caught by the strong
wind and dashed over the bridge until it was
impossible to make use of night-glasses owing to the
beads of moisture on the lenses.

Beyond a curt, clearly-enunciated order to the
quartermaster, neither of the two officers spoke a
word, Crosthwaite gripping the guard-rail and
peering ahead, while Sefton kept his attention upon
the tell-tale greyish smudge that marked the
position of the destroyer ahead.

The result of years of training at night manoeuvres
was bearing fruit.  Iron-nerved men were at
the helm of each boat--men who had long since
got beyond the "jumpy" stage, when strange
freaks of imagination conjure up visions of objects
that do not exist.  A false alarm and a rapid fire
from the 4-inch guns would be fatal to the
enterprise, the success of which depended entirely upon
getting well within torpedo-range without being
spotted by the alert foe.

A feeble light, screened in all directions save
that towards the vessels astern, blinked rapidly
from the leading destroyer.  It was the signal for
the flotilla to form in line abeam.

"Starboard ten!" ordered Crosthwaite.

"Starboard ten, sir!" was the helmsman's reply,
while the lieutenant-commander telegraphed for
speed to be increased to 22 knots in order to bring
the *Calder* even with the leader.

Had it been daylight the manoeuvre would have
been executed with the precision of a machine;
being night it was impossible to follow the
movements of the whole flotilla, but carried out the
orders were, each destroyer keeping station with
the one nearest on her starboard beam.

Suddenly the darkness was penetrated by the
dazzling beam of a search-light from a ship at a
distance of two miles on the *Calder's* port bow.
For a moment it hung irresolute, and then
swung round in the direction of the on-coming destroyers.

A huge black mass intercepted the rays, its
outlines silhouetted against the silvery glare.  The
mass was a German light cruiser, evidently
detached for scouting purposes and returning with
screened lights towards the main fleet.

Instantly a furious cannonade was opened upon
the luckless light cruiser from half a dozen of her
consorts.  For a couple of minutes the firing
continued, until, with a tremendous flash and a
deafening roar, her magazine exploded.

"The Huns will never admit their mistake,"
thought Sefton.  "They'll claim to have destroyed
another of our ships."

Then the sub's whole attention was chained to
the work now on hand.  Barely had the last of the
flying debris from the German light cruiser struck
the water when at full speed the British destroyer
flotilla hurled itself upon the foe.

Played upon by fifty search-lights, the target for
a hundred guns, large and small, the destroyers
held on with one set purpose, their torpedo-men
discharging the 21-inch missiles with rapidity and
cool determination.

Above the crash of the ordnance could be heard
the deeper boom of the torpedoes as they exploded
against the ships' bottoms at a depth of fifteen or
twenty feet below the surface.

Slick in between two large battleships the
*Calder* rushed, letting loose a pair of torpedoes
at each of the hostile ships.  One torpedo was
observed to explode close to the stern of the
battleship to starboard, the stricken vessel leaving
the line with a decided list and enveloped in smoke.

"Light cruisers, by Jove!" muttered Sefton, as
the *Calder*, on nearing the end of the enemy line,
was confronted by three vessels of the "Wiesbaden" class.

A heavy fire greeted the approaching destroyer,
but almost without exception the shells went wide
of their mark.  Then, gathering speed, one of the
German light cruisers ported helm and attempted
to ram her lightly-built opponent.

Making no effort to avoid the danger, the *Calder*
held on, until Sefton, turning to see what his
commanding officer was doing, found Crosthwaite
sitting on the bridge with his back against the pedestal
of the semaphore, and his hands clasping his right
leg just above the knee, and blood oozing from a
gash in his forehead.

The sub was the only officer on the bridge capable
of taking command.

"Hard-a-starboard!" he shouted, in order to
make himself heard above the din.

Ever quick on her helm, the destroyer spun
round almost on her heel.  The German's stem
missed her by a couple of feet, while, hurled bodily
sideways by the mass of water from the former's
bow wave, the *Calder* slid past with her side-plating
almost touching that of her enemy.

Simultaneously the Hun let fly a broadside.  The
destroyer reeled under the shock, but once again
she was in luck, for none of the hostile guns could
be sufficiently depressed to score a vital hit.  The
next instant the cruiser was lost to sight in the
darkness, saluted by a number of rounds from the
destroyer's after 4-inch gun.

Temporarily stunned by the detonations of the
German cruiser's guns--for he was within twenty
feet of the muzzles of several of the weapons--Sefton
leaned against the conning-tower.  The
metal was unpleasantly hot, for a light shell had
burst against it hardly a minute before.  Beyond
denting the steel armour and blowing the
signal-locker over the side, the missile had done no
further damage.

Coughing the acrid fumes from his lungs and
clearing his eyes of involuntary tears, for the air
was thick with irritating dust, Sefton began to take
a renewed interest in his surroundings.

The *Calder* had penetrated the hostile line without
sustaining serious damage.  She had now to return.

The sub grasped one of the voice-tubes.  The
flexible pipe came away in his hand, the whole
system having been cut through with a fragment of shell.

"We've had it pretty hot!" he soliloquized.
"Wonder we're still afloat.  Well, now for it once more."

He leant over the after side of the bridge.  A dark
figure was moving for'ard ten feet beneath him.

"Pass the word to the L.T.O.," ordered the sub,
"to report the number of torpedoes remaining."

"Aye, aye, sir," replied the man, and, retracing
his steps, he hurried aft to where the leading
torpedo-man was standing at the tubes.

Back came the messenger, lurching as he loomed
through the darkness.

"The man hasn't found his sea-legs yet,"
thought Sefton; then aloud he asked: "Well?"

"None left, sir," replied the seaman, and, having
delivered his message, he pitched upon his face.

Sefton had to let him lie there.  The sub could
not leave the bridge.  Even Crosthwaite had to be
left alone until the destroyer was out of action.

It would have been a futile task to attempt to
take the *Calder* back between the enemy lines.
With no other offensive weapons than her
comparatively light 4-inch quick-firers, she would be
unable to do any serious damage to the huge
armoured ships, while at the same time she
would be exposed to an overwhelming fire as she
passed abeam of the German battleships and light
cruisers.

So into the darkness, beyond the glare of the
search-lights, Sefton took the destroyer, with the
intention of making a wide sweep and rejoining
the British fleet.  Of how the *Calder's* consorts
were faring he knew nothing, except that the action
was being briskly maintained.  Occasionally the
foggy night would be rent by a vivid red glare
that outclassed the almost continuous flashes of the
guns, which illuminated the low-lying clouds like
incessant summer lightning.  The roar of the
ordnance was simply indescribable.  It seemed
impossible that a man could go through it without
having his ear-drums burst by the terrific air-beats
of the appalling detonations.

A dark shape loomed through the darkness almost
athwart the *Calder's* track.  Only a quick
movement of the helm avoided collision with the floating
object, which, as the *Calder* swept by, revealed
itself as a large destroyer.

On deck she was little better than a wreck.
Bridge, conning-tower, funnels, masts, and boats
had vanished utterly.  Her guns, wrenched from
their mountings, pointed upwards at grotesque
angles through their shattered shields.  Where
the torpedo-tubes had been was a jagged hole still
spanned by one arc of the gun-metal racer.  This
much was visible in the reflected glare of the
distant search-lights as the *Calder* swept by with
her guns trained abeam should the vessel still be
capable of offence.

A score of men, mostly engine-room ratings, were
gathered amidships on the shattered deck of the
crippled vessel.  They had desisted from the work
on which they were engaged, and were gazing
mutely at the destroyer that might be instrumental
in giving them the *coup de grâce*.

"What ship is that?" roared Sefton through a
megaphone, the intervening distance being less
than twenty yards.

"His Majesty's destroyer *Yealm*," was the reply,
flung proudly through the darkness.

Thrusting both levers of the engine-room
telegraph to "Full Speed Astern" and afterwards to
"Stop", the sub brought the *Calder* to a standstill
within easy hailing distance of her disabled consort.
Here was a case in which assistance could be
rendered without detriment to the interests of the
Service.  The *Calder*, until she could replenish her
store of torpedoes, was practically useless as a
fighting unit.  With her engines undamaged she
could tow the *Yealm* into comparative safety, provided
she was not intercepted by a straggling hostile ship.

"Stand by to receive a hawser!" continued
Sefton.  "We'll give you a pluck out of this."

"No; thanks all the same, sir," shouted a deep
voice.  "We're sound below the water-line, and we
can get under way again in a few minutes.  We'll
take our chances of getting out of it.  We gave the
swine an almighty punching before they swept our
decks.  Carry on, sir, and give them another half
a dozen for us."

It was the *Yealm's* torpedo gunner who spoke,
the only surviving executive officer of the gallant
destroyer.

"Can you spare us any torpedoes?" shouted
Sefton, an inspiration flashing across his mind.

"Aye, aye, sir," was the reply.  "Four."

"Very good; we'll come alongside," rejoined the
sub, who thereupon ordered two wire "springs" to
be made ready, so as to establish communication
between the two destroyers.

"Well done, Sefton!" exclaimed his lieutenant-commander.

The sub turned and found that Crosthwaite had
regained his feet, and was standing beside him
upon the partly demolished bridge.

"You're----", began Sefton, but the lieutenant-commander
shut him up.

"Nothing," he replied laconically.  "You might
fix me up.  Not a word to Stirling, mind.  If I
keep out of his way, he's not to know.  But, by
Jove, you've been knocked about a bit."

The information, although correct, came as a
surprise to Sefton.  For the first time he noticed
that the coat-sleeve of his left arm was cut away,
the remnant hanging by a few threads, while his
left wrist was encumbered by a bandage.  He must
have tied the handkerchief himself, but the action
had been purely automatic.  Hitherto he had had
no knowledge that he had been hit by a splinter,
and was quite unaware that he had acted as his own
bandager.

"Carry on," continued Crosthwaite.  "I'll stand
easy for a while.  I'll feel all right in a few minutes."

He vanished behind the wreckage of the conning
tower, leaving Sefton to survey the scene.  It was
now light enough to discern the nature of the
damage caused by the ordeal through which the
*Calder* had passed, for the flashes of the distant
guns, added to the reflected rays of the search-lights,
made it possible to see with fair distinctness.

Of the *Calder's* funnels only one remained
standing.  The others, either swept clean away or lying
athwart the deck, left jagged cavities, through which
the smoke was pouring from the oil-fed furnaces.

The starboard side of the bridge had vanished,
with it the domed top of the conning-tower, while
the armoured sheets upon the latter, ripped like
cardboard, had been torn open, revealing the
interior--a jumble of twisted voice-tubes and
shattered indicators.  The same shell that had
wrought havoc with the conning-tower had swept
the for'ard 4-inch completely from its mountings,
taking its crew with it.

Meanwhile a dozen men had boarded the *Yealm*.
Her scanty survivors were too done up to tackle
the task of heaving out the torpedoes, for, included
in the work of destruction, her derricks had shared
the fate of the rest of the top-hamper.  Others of
the *Calder's* crew were attending to the injuries of
their comrades, for, in addition to eight men killed
outright, six were mortally wounded, and a dozen
more had sustained injuries that would incapacitate
them for further service.

The plucky messenger who had brought Sefton's
reply from the L.T.O. had been carried below.  In
the heat of the fight he had received a splinter of
shell in his chest, the impact fracturing one of the
breast-bones.  Yet, undaunted, he continued to
serve his gun until the destroyer had emerged from
the hostile fire.  Even then he refused to present
himself before the doctor, and was making his way
to the fo'c'sle like a wounded animal, when Sefton,
unaware of his injuries, had ordered him to take a
message aft.  This he did, in spite of the increasing
pain and faintness, and having delivered the reply
he had been forced to collapse.

At length the four gleaming cylinders were transferred
from the *Yealm* to the *Calder's* decks.  Once
more the destroyer, although battered sufficiently
to justify her retiring from the fight, was made
capable of dealing deadly blows at her gigantic
antagonists.

The "springs" were cast off, and, with the
engines running at full speed ahead, the *Calder* again
hurled herself into the fray.




CHAPTER XIII--Sefton in Command
===============================

By this time the firing had ceased, while, the
search-lights of the German war-ships having been
screened, intense darkness brooded over the scene.
The sea was rising rapidly, as if Nature was about
to assert her power over the opposing fleets.

Exposed to the full force of the wind and waves,
Sefton stood upon the remaining portion of the
bridge, with his lieutenant-commander reclining
within easy distance.  Crosthwaite had given his
subordinate strict orders to inform him of the
moment when the Huns were again sighted.  His
wounds mattered little.  Provided his head were
cool and his brain alert the *Calder's* skipper meant
to miss no part of the next phase of the scrap.

The destroyer was now steaming in almost the
opposite direction to that by which she had
penetrated the enemy line.  She was five or six miles to
leeward of the German ships and possibly three
times that distance from the British main fleet.

Far away to the west'ard came the dull rumble of
a furious cannonade.

"Our light cruisers are having a scrap with the
Hun destroyers," muttered Sefton.  "By Jove, this
is a night!"

The sub was correct in his surmise.  Although
the British heavy ships were not attacked during
the night, thanks to the screen provided by the
Second Light-cruiser Squadron and several of the
destroyer flotillas, the enemy torpedo-craft were
several times in touch with the "fringes of the fleet".

Darkness played many strange pranks with the
combatants, mistakes that more than once told
against the Huns occurring with remarkable persistency.

On one occasion a battleship of the "Kaiser"
class was observed by the *Fearless*.  The Hun was
entirely isolated, and was steaming at full speed.
The British destroyer was unable to engage her
gigantic antagonist--the two vessels passing in
opposite directions at an aggregate rate of 50
miles an hour.  To launch a torpedo would almost
certainly result in a miss, while it was extremely
hazardous for the *Fearless* to turn and follow,
without colliding with other British destroyers following
much farther astern.  Nor did the German battleship
make any attempt to engage; possibly the
*Fearless* was not visible from the war-ship's deck.

Holding on her course, the *Fearless* warned her
consorts by wireless, and a heavy explosion long
after told its own tale.

An even more remarkable incident occurred
during the night.  Several British light cruisers were
steaming in line ahead when a severely mauled
German ocean-going torpedo-boat was observed
approaching.  Mistaken for one of our destroyers,
the two leading cruisers let her slip past within the
distance of a cable's length.  The third, taking no
risks, suddenly unmasked her search-lights and
played them full upon the stranger.  Caught in the
blinding glare, her crew could be seen hard at
work endeavouring to turn a pair of torpedo-tubes
abeam--a task of considerable difficulty owing to
the "racer" being damaged.

The British light cruiser saved them the job in
a most effectual manner.  Depressing her for'ard
9.2-inch gun, she sent a huge shell at point-blank
range crashing into the light-built hull.

.. _`"SHE SENT A HUGE SHELL AT POINT-BLANK RANGE CRASHING INTO THE LIGHT-BUILT HULL"`:

.. figure:: images/img-151.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "SHE SENT A HUGE SHELL AT POINT-BLANK RANGE CRASHING INTO THE LIGHT-BUILT HULL"

   "SHE SENT A HUGE SHELL AT POINT-BLANK RANGE CRASHING INTO THE LIGHT-BUILT HULL"

A blinding flash, a huge puff of smoke, and all
was over.  The search-light played upon an
expanse of agitated water where, five seconds before,
a German torpedo-craft had been churning on her way.

Meanwhile the *Calder* held resolutely on her
course, ignorant of her position relative to the
enemy fleet, and liable at any moment to "knock
up against" one of the German light cruisers.

Crosthwaite had now resumed command.  His
unconquerable determination had soared above
physical injuries.  He was not out for personal
kudos.  Actuated solely by a desire to uphold the
prestige of the Grand Fleet, and his own flotilla in
particular, he was determined to hurl the *Calder*
between the hostile lines.  It mattered little that
the destroyer was unsupported--for long since
she had lost touch with her consorts.  Even if
none of her officers and crew returned to tell the
tale, he was confident that the craft under his
command would play her part in a manner worthy
of the time-honoured traditions of the British navy.

Presently a high dark mass was observed almost
ahead and slightly on the destroyer's port bow.  It
was a hostile battleship.  She was lying athwart the
*Calder's* course, with a considerable list to
starboard, and proceeding at a rate of about four knots.
Her foremast had been shot away, and with it the
for'ard funnel, which in ships of this class is close
to the mast.  One of her two steel derricks had
collapsed, the curved end trailing over the side.
Long gashes in her armoured plates testified to the
accuracy and power of the British gunnery.

Already the torpedoes had been "launched home"
into the *Calder's* twin tubes.  In any case the
battleship must not be allowed to crawl into port,
even if she should be incapable of repairs for months.

Crosthwaite was about to con the destroyer in
order to bring the torpedo-tubes to bear, when the
already stricken battleship gave a violent lurch,
from which she made no attempt at recovery.

Farther and farther she heeled, the rush of water
into her hull and the hiss of escaping air being
distinctly audible above the howling of the wind.
Her crew--or, rather, the survivors--could be
heard as they leapt from the steeply inclined decks.
There was no need for a torpedo to administer the
*coup de grâce*.

Five minutes later only the battleship's keel-plates
and the tips of the four propellers remained
above the surface, by which time the *Calder* had
left her well astern and was approaching the double
lines of hostile light cruisers, whose indistinct
shapes were just beginning to be visible against
the patch of starlight that penetrated a gap in
the inky mist.

A sudden blinding glare enveloped the *Calder*,
causing her lieutenant-commander, quartermaster,
and helmsman to blink helplessly.  Fairly caught
by the rays of half a dozen search-lights, they were
temporarily blinded as effectually as if their eyes
had been bandaged with opaque scarves.

Fortunately Sefton's back was turned from the
direction in which the destroyer was proceeding.
The unmasking of the concentrated rays warned
him.  Shielding his eyes, he turned and made a
dash for the steam steering-gear, the wheel of which
the helmsman was still grasping automatically.

"Hard-a-port!" shouted the sub.

The man made no attempt to carry out the order,
but, slowly bending forward, collapsed upon the
bridge.  A fragment of shell had pierced his brain.

Pushing the body aside, Sefton put the helm hard
over, and the destroyer, screened by an intervening
vessel that fortunately did not make use of her
search-lights, entered a darkened patch between the
brilliantly lighted areas on either side.

With her remaining guns spitting defiance at the
hostile light cruisers, and launching her torpedoes
immediately a target presented itself, the destroyer
continued her devoted dash.  Projectiles, large and
small, hurtled overhead, while, rapidly hit again
and again, she was soon reduced to a mere wreck.

The German cruisers had a fair and easy mark.
Had their gun-layers been equal to the British, the
*Calder* would have been blown clean out of the
water; but the terrible night had told upon their
nerves.  A wholesome dread of the British
destroyers with their deadly torpedoes was present in
their minds.  Not knowing whether the solitary
destroyer was supported by others of the flotilla,
they were under the impression that the *Calder*
was leading a line of swift vessels, and the surmise
was not comforting to the Huns.

In the midst of the tornado of shell one of the
*Calder's* torpedoes "got home", ripping open the
bottom of a light cruiser and causing an internal
explosion that tore her to pieces.  So close was
the destroyer that the terrific rush of displaced air
was distinctly felt, while a dense cloud of smoke
from the sinking cruiser, driving to leeward across
the foam-flecked and shell-sprayed waves,
completely enveloped the little craft that had dealt the
successful blow.

"Take her out of action if you can," exclaimed
a voice which Sefton recognized as that of his
commanding officer.  "I'm done in, I'm afraid."

The cloud of smoke saved the *Calder* from
destruction, for, turning while still in the midst of
the impenetrable pall of vapour, the destroyer
slipped away from the rays of search-lights, and,
doubling, literally staggered in an opposite
direction to the one she had been keeping a minute before.

In vain the German search-lights swept the sea
in the supposed position of the daring destroyer,
until, convinced that she had shared the fate of their
lost light cruiser, they screened lights and re-formed line.

Once more, in the pitch-black darkness of the
night, Sefton began to realize the responsibility of
his position.  Crosthwaite was now lying
motionless--either he had fainted from loss of blood or
else he was already dead.  In spite of his anxiety
on his skipper's behalf, Sefton was unable to lift
a finger to help him.  The sub was the only one
left standing on the bridge, and whether the bridge
was part of a sinking vessel he knew not.  A
strange silence brooded over the *Calder*, broken
occasionally by the moans and groans of wounded
men who littered her deck.

Yet Sefton's instructions were clear up to a
certain point.  He had to take the destroyer out of
action.  To all intents this part of his duty had
been carried out.  The *Calder*, in a damaged,
perhaps foundering, condition, was alone on the wild
North Sea.

The dark form of a bluejacket clambered up the
twisted bridge-ladder, and, crossing to where Sefton
stood, touched his shoulder.

"Where's the sub-lootenant, mate?" he asked.

"I'm here, Brown," replied the young officer.

"Beg pardon, sir," replied the A.B.  "Couldn't
recognize you in the darkness.  Thought I'd see if
you was all right."

"Thanks," replied Sefton, touched by the man's
devotion.  "How goes it on deck?"

"A clean sweep, sir," replied Brown.  "A regular
wipe-out.  Copped us proper, the swine.  Both
tubes knocked out, after 4-inch blown clean over
the side."

"Do you know if we're making much water?"
asked the sub anxiously, for the sluggish way in
which the destroyer laboured through the water
gave rise to considerable apprehension in that respect.

"Can't say, sir."

"Then pass the word for the senior petty officer
to report to me."

The A.B. hurried off, muttering curiously
expressed words of thanksgiving at his young officer's
escape.  Gratitude had been a hitherto undeveloped
trait in Brown's nature, until that memorable
occasion when Sefton risked his life, if not exactly to
save, to be with him when he found himself in the "ditch".

Groping for the voice-tube from the bridge to
the engine-room, for the telegraph had disappeared,
Sefton attempted to call up the engineer-lieutenant,
but in vain.  This means of communication with
the engine-room was completely interrupted.

It seemed an interminable time before the desired
petty officer reported himself to the bridge.  He
was a short, lightly-built man, holding the rank
of gunner's mate, and was a capable and fairly
well-educated specimen of the lower deck.  Yet,
had it been daylight, and he had been dumped
down just as he was in the streets of a naval town,
he would have been promptly run in by the police
as a vagrant.  His features were literally hidden in
soot mingled with blood, for a shell had hurled him
face downwards upon a jagged steel grating, which
had harrowed his face in a disfiguring though not
dangerous fashion.  His scanty uniform was in
ribbons, and smelt strongly of smouldering embers,
while a black scarf tied tightly round his left leg
below the knee failed to stop a steady trickle from
a shrapnel wound.

Briefly and to the point the petty officer made his
report.  The *Calder* had been hulled in more than
twenty places, but only three holes were betwixt
wind and water.  These had already admitted a
considerable quantity of water, but temporary
repairs were already in hand.  The steam-pumps
had been damaged, but were capable of being set
right, while the use of the hand-pumps enabled the
sorry remnant of the destroyer's crew to keep the
leaks well under control.

Nevertheless the *Calder* no longer rose buoyantly
to the waves.  A sullen, listless movement told its
own tale.  Not without a grim, determined struggle
would her crew be able successfully to combat the
joint effects of war and rough weather.

On deck most of the fittings had been swept
clear.  Of the funnel only seven feet of jagged
stump remained.  The rest had vanished.  Both
masts had been shot away close to the deck.  Of
the conning-tower only the base was left; the rest
had been blown away almost with the last shell
fired at point-blank range.  The *Calder's* raised
fo'c'sle no longer existed.  From two feet close to
the water-line at the stem, and rising obliquely to
the foot of the bridge, there was nothing left but
an inclined plane of bent and perforated steel plates.

"Our own mother wouldn't know us, sir," concluded
the petty officer.

"Let us hope she'll have the chance," rejoined
Sefton, wondering whether it was humanly
possible once more to bring the crippled vessel
alongside her parent ship, or whether the *Calder* would
again berth alongside the jetty at far-off Rosyth.

The arrival of half a dozen men enabled Sefton
to have the commanding officer removed below.
Anxiously the sub awaited Stirling's verdict.  The
report was long in coming, but the doctor's hands
were full to overflowing.  During that terrible
night many a man owed his life, under Providence,
to the administrations of the young medico.
Indifferent to his own peril, although the crippled
destroyer was straining badly in the heavy seas,
Pills toiled like a galley-slave in the semi-darkness,
for the electric light had failed, and the temporary
operating-room, crowded with ghastly cases, was
illuminated only by the glimmer of three oil-lamps.

"That you, Pills?" enquired Sefton anxiously,
as an officer, distinguishable only by his uniform
cap stuck at a comical angle on the top of his head,
clambered upon the bridge.

"No--Boxspanner," replied that worthy.  "At
least what's left of him.  Where's the skipper?"

"Knocked out."

"Done in?"

Sefton shook his head.

"Don't know," he replied.  "Pills has him in
hand.  In any case he's got it pretty badly.  Well,
how goes it?"

"Can't get more'n five knots out of the engines,"
replied the engineer-lieutenant.  "Port engine-room
reduced to scrap.  There was three feet of
water in the stokeholds, but it's subsiding, thank
goodness!  Deuce of a mess when the lights went
out.  Stumbled over a man and banged my head.
It feels like a blister on the tyre of a car--liable
to burst at any moment, don't you know.  The
fellow strafed me for treading on him.  Asked him
what the deuce he was lying there for, since he
had wind enough to kick up a row.  What do you
think he was up to?"

"Can't say," replied Sefton.

"Plugging a shot-hole with his bare back.  Had
his shoulder wedged against the gash.  He'd been
like that for twenty minutes--and he'd lost three
fingers of the right hand."

"You'll have to make a special report," remarked
the sub.

"A special report of every man of my
department you mean!" exclaimed Boxspanner enthusiastically.
"By Jove!  If you could have seen them----"

The arrival of the doctor cut short the
engineer-lieutenant's eulogies.

"Just up for a breather," gasped Stirling.
"Thought I'd let you know how things are going
in my line.  A bit stiff our butcher's bill.  The
skipper's pretty rough.  Took a wicked-looking
chunk of high-explosive shell out of his forehead.
I've had the deuce of a job to stop the flow
of arterial blood from a gash in his leg.  He'll pull
through.  He's as hard as nails."

"That's good," said Sefton and Boxspanner in
one breath.

"Talking of nails," continued Stirling, "I've
just had a rum case--Thompson, the leading
signalman.  Took fifty pieces of metal from his hide.
The poor wretch couldn't sit down, although the
wounds were light.  Those strafed Huns had
crammed one of their shrapnel-shells with
gramophone needles.  Fact!  I'm not joking!  I suppose
they haven't the heart for any more music, so they
made us a present of the needles.  How much
longer to daybreak?"

"About a quarter to three, Greenwich time,"
replied Sefton.  "I haven't a watch."

He did not think it necessary to explain that his
wristlet watch had been ripped from its strap by a
flying fragment of shell.  He was becoming painfully
aware of the circumstance, for every movement
of his wrist gave him a sharp pain.

Boxspanner crossed over to the temporary
binnacle--one removed from the wreckage of one of
the boats--for the destroyer's standard compass
had gone the way of the majority of the
deck-fittings, while the gyro-compass, placed in the
safest part of the vessel, had been dismounted by
the bursting of a shell.

"It's only a quarter past eleven," he announced
dolorously, as he consulted his watch by the feeble
light of the binnacle.

"Rot!" ejaculated the doctor.  "It was midnight
when we went into action."

The engineer-lieutenant made a second examination.
The glass of the watch had been completely
broken; not even a fragment remained.  The hands
had gone, while across the dial were two cracks in
such positions that they had misled Boxspanner
into the belief that they were the hands.  Yet, on
holding the timepiece to his ear and listening
intently--for like the rest of the *Calder's* complement
he was temporarily deafened from the result of the
violent gun-fire--he found that the watch was still going.

"It's getting light already," observed Stirling,
pointing to a pale-reddish hue in the north-eastern
sky.  "Well, I must away.  More patching and
mending demand my modest attention."

Slowly the dawn broke, a crimson glow betwixt
the dark, scudding masses of clouds betokening a
continuance of the hard blow, and plenty of it.
With the rising sea the task of the *Calder's* crew
increased tenfold.  Anxiously the horizon was
swept in the hope of a friendly vessel being
sighted, but the sky-line was unbroken.  The tide
of battle, if the action were still being maintained,
had rolled away beyond sight and hearing of the
little band of heroes who so worthily maintained
the prestige of the White Ensign.




CHAPTER XIV--Out of the Fight
=============================

With the pumps ejecting copious streams of water
the damaged *Calder* held gamely on her way,
daylight adding to the horrors of the aftermath of
battle.  The hull echoed to the clanging of the
artificers' hammers and the dull thud of the caulkers'
mallets as the undaunted and tireless men proceeded
with the work of stopping leaks.  On deck steps
were being taken to clear away the debris, and to
set up a pair of temporary funnels of sufficient
height to carry the smoke clear of the side.  The
sole remaining gun was overhauled and again made
fit for action in case of necessity.  Although not
anxious to fall in with a U boat or a stray Zeppelin,
the *Calder's* crew were determined to take every
precaution to keep the tattered ensign still flying
from the temporary staff set up aft.

For another hour the destroyer crawled on her
long journey towards the cliff-bound shores of
Britain.  Then Sefton issued an order which was
repeated aft and down below.  The engines were
stopped, the remnants of the crew mustered aft, and
the battle-scarred pieces of bunting lowered to half-mast.

The *Calder's* crew were about to pay their last
homage to those of their comrades who had gallantly
laid down their lives for king and country.

Fifteen hammock-enshrouded forms lay motionless
at the after end of the deck.  Bare-headed their
messmates stood in silence as Sefton, with a peculiar
catch in his usually firm voice, read the prayer
appointed for the burial of those at sea.  Then into
the foam-flecked waves, the bodies of those
conquerors even in death were consigned, to find an
undisturbed resting-place fathoms deep on the bed
of the North Sea.

It was no time for melancholy.  At the word
"Dismiss" the men trooped for'ard, for there was
plenty of work to do, and, in the navy especially,
hard but necessary work is rightly considered one
of the best antidotes for grief.

Snatching at the opportunity to visit his chief,
Sefton hurried below to the shattered ward-room,
where Crosthwaite lay on a mattress that smelt
abominably of cordite and the lingering odours of
poison-gas.  The lieutenant-commander had by this
time recovered consciousness, and greeted Sefton
with a bad attempt at a smile.

"We've kept our end up," he said feebly.
"Think you'll get the old ship back to port?"

"I trust so," said the sub guardedly.  "I'll do
my level best."

"I know," assented Crosthwaite.  "Still, you've
a stiff job.  I'll be on the bridge in another half an
hour and give you a spell."

Sefton said nothing.  He realized that many
hours--nay, days--would pass before his chief
would again assume command.  Crosthwaite was
quick to notice his subordinate's silence.

"Suppose I've had it pretty badly," he admitted
reluctantly.  "It was a rotten business getting
knocked out at the critical time."

"Nothing much happened after that," explained
Sefton.  "We were out of it within twenty seconds
from the time you were hit."

"Man alive!" protested Crosthwaite.  "You're
altogether wrong.  For nearly ten minutes I was
lying there quite conscious and watching you.
You're a plucky fellow, old man."

Before Sefton could reply he was called away.
A Zeppelin had been sighted, flying in the direction
of the badly mauled *Calder*.

Quickly the remaining gun was manned.  Although
not intended for aerial work, modification to
the original mounting permitted it to be trained
within ten degrees of the perpendicular, supplementary
sights having been fitted to enable it to
be laid while at extreme elevation.

The air-ship was still four miles off, and flying at
an altitude of about 2000 feet.  Apparently
undamaged, it was proceeding at a rapid pace against
the wind.

Deprived of the advantage of speed and manoeuvring
powers, the destroyer would fall an easy prey
to the Zeppelin's bombs unless the *Calder* could
make good use of her solitary 4-inch quick-firer.
The weapon was loaded and trained abeam, the
gun's crew being ordered to take cover, and thus
give the destroyer the appearance of being
incapable of defence.

Sefton made no attempt to alter helm.  He had
made up his mind to wait until the huge target
came within easy range.  He knew that the *Calder*
was under observation, and that the Germans were
trying to ascertain the nature of the destroyer's
injuries.  Should they come to the conclusion that
the slowly-moving British craft was powerless of
doing damage they would not be likely to waste
ballast in ascending to a safe altitude and a
corresponding loss of hydrogen in descending after the
attack.

Nearer and nearer came the huge air-ship, her
bows steadily pointing in the direction of the
destroyer.  Range-finder in hand, Sefton curbed his
impatience.  Not until the Zeppelin bore at a
distance of 2500 yards did he order the gun's crew to
their stations.

With a vicious spurt of flame and a sharp,
resounding detonation the 4-inch sent a shell hurtling
through the air.  Admirably timed, it burst
apparently close to the silvery-grey envelope.  Almost
instantly a huge cloud of black and yellow smoke
shot from the Zeppelin.

A rousing cheer burst from the throats of the
British seamen.  The cheer was taken up by the
wounded heroes down below, who, having heard in
some mysterious manner of the air-ship's approach,
were waiting the issue of events with mingled
confidence and regret that they themselves were unable
to assist in "strafing the sausage".

The cheers literally froze on the lips of the men
on deck, for when the smoke cleared away the
Zeppelin was a mere speck, 10,000 feet in the air.
Under cover of a discharge of smoke she had
dropped a large quantity of ballast and had shot
vertically upwards to a safe altitude.

The Hun in command had received orders not
to attack unless he could do so without risk, the
Zeppelin being specially detailed for observation
work.  With a range of visibility of fifty or sixty
miles she was of far more service to the discomfited
German High Seas Fleet in warning them of the
position of their victors than in strafing a solitary
destroyer.

With solid water sweeping her fore and aft, the
*Calder* still struggled on her course, steered by the
hand-operated gear in conjunction with the
inefficient boat's compass.  Hitherto the leaks had
been kept under, but now the water was making
its way in through the shattered fore-deck.

Reluctantly Sefton came to the conclusion that
he would have to give the order "abandon ship"
before many minutes had passed.  Already the
knowledge that the old *Calder* was slowly
foundering had become general, yet there was no panic.

Calmly some of the men began to collect all the
buoyant materials they could lay their hands upon
for the purpose of constructing rafts, since there
were no boats left.  Others stuck gamely to the
task of manning the pumps, while the wounded
were carried on deck in order to give them a chance
of getting clear of the sinking ship.

At seven in the morning a vessel was sighted to
the west'ard proceeding in a nor'-easterly direction.
After a few minutes of anxious doubt as to her
nationality, she proved to be a Danish trawler--unless
the national colours painted on her sides
and the distinguishing numbers on her sails were
disguises.

Altering her course, the trawler bore down upon
the *Calder* and slowed down within hailing
distance to leeward.

"Come you all aboard," shouted the Danish
skipper, a tall, broad-shouldered descendant of a
Viking forbear.  "We save you.  Plenty room for all."

"We don't want to abandon ship yet," replied
Sefton.  "We may weather it yet."

"An' I think that you answer so," rejoined the
skipper.  "You British seamans brave mans.
Englishmans goot; Danes goot; Germans no goot.
Me stand by an' 'elp."

"Seen anything of the battle?" enquired the sub.

The Danish skipper nodded his head emphatically.

"Germans run for port as if Satan after them,"
he declared; then, realizing that he had paid the
Huns a compliment, he hastened to add: "No, no;
Germans too fond of wickedness to run from Satan--it
is from the English that they run.  Ships sunk
everywhere, dead men float by thousands: we no
fish for months in these waters."

This was the first intimation that the *Calder's*
crew received of Jellicoe's failure to combine
annihilation with victory.  Victory it undoubtedly was;
but, although the Grand Fleet had succeeded in
getting between the enemy and his North Sea
bases, the Huns, favoured by darkness and fog,
had contrived to elude the toils, and were
skeltering for safety with a haste bordering upon panic.
Jellicoe and Beatty had done everything that
courage and science could devise.  They had
inflicted far greater losses on the Huns than the
latter did upon us.  And, what is more, the British
fleet "held the lists", while the boastful Germans,
crowding into Wilhelmshaven and other ports,
spent their time in spreading lying reports of their
colossal victory over the hated English.

"You no look surprise at the news," continued
the master of the Danish trawler.  "Me think you
cheer like mad."

"Of course, we're glad," replied Sefton, "but it
is not quite what we expected, you know.  We're
sorry that the enemy got away."

"Me, too," agreed the Dane.  "Germany treat
little Denmark badly.  She bully; we cannot do
anything.  Shall we run alongside an' take you
and your crew off?"

Sefton gave a glance to windward.  It seemed as
if the seas were moderating.  His reluctance to
abandon ship increased.  The *Calder* had played
her part, and it seemed base ingratitude to leave
her to founder.

.. _`"THE 'CALDER' HAD PLAYED HER PART, AND IT SEEMED BASE INGRATITUDE TO LEAVE HER TO FOUNDER"`:

.. figure:: images/img-173.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE 'CALDER' HAD PLAYED HER PART, AND IT SEEMED BASE INGRATITUDE TO LEAVE HER TO FOUNDER"

   "THE 'CALDER' HAD PLAYED HER PART, AND IT SEEMED BASE INGRATITUDE TO LEAVE HER TO FOUNDER"

"I don't think she's settling down any further,
sir," replied one of the carpenter's crew in answer
to the sub's question.  "Bulkheads are holding well."

"Then we'll carry on," declared the sub, and,
warmly thanking the Dane for his humanity, he
courteously declined the offer of assistance.

"Goot luck, then!" replied the skipper of the
trawler as he thrust the wheel hard over and
ordered easy ahead.  Yet not for another hour did
he part company.  Keeping at a discreet distance
from the labouring destroyer, he remained until,
the sea having moderated, and the *Calder* showing
no further signs of distress, he came to the
conclusion that the battered British craft stood a fair
chance of making port.

For the next couple of hours the *Calder* was
continually passing wreckage, scorched and shattered
woodwork testifying to the devastating effect of
modern explosives.  The destroyer was passing
over the scene of one of the many isolated
engagements that composed the memorable battle
and certain British victory of Jutland.

"A boat or a raft of sorts, sir," reported a
seaman, pointing to a floating object a couple of miles
away, and slightly on the *Calder's* starboard bow.

Sefton brought his binoculars to bear upon the
objects indicated by the look-out.  At regular
intervals, as it rose on the crests of the waves, a large
raft known, after its inventor, as the "Carley"
was visible.  An exaggerated lifebuoy, with a
"sparred" platform so arranged that in the event
of the appliance being completely overset the
"deck" would still be available, the "Carley" has
undoubtedly proved its value in the present war.
Practically indestructible, not easily set on fire by
shells, and with an almost inexhaustible reserve of
buoyancy, the raft is capable of supporting twenty
men with ease.

Slowly the *Calder* approached the life-buoy.  She
was doing a bare 3 knots; while, able to use
only one propeller, she was hard on her helm.

"Wot are they--strafed 'Uns or some of our
blokes?" enquired an ordinary seaman of his
"raggie"; for, although the men on the raft were
now clearly visible, their almost total absence of
clothing made it impossible to determine their
nationality.

"Dunno, mate," replied his chum.  "'Uns,
perhaps; they don't seem in no 'urry to see us."

"'Uns or no 'Uns," rejoined the first speaker,
"skipper's goin' to pull 'em out of the ditch, if it's
only to show 'em that we ain't like them U boat
pirates."

"Strikes me they're pretty well done in," chimed
in another.  "There's not one of 'em as has the
strength of a steerage rat."

Huddled on the raft were fifteen almost naked
human beings.  Some were roughly bandaged.
All were blackened by smoke and scorched by
exposure to the sun and salt air.  Another half-dozen
were in the water, supporting themselves by
one hand grasping the life-lines of the raft.

By this time they had observed the *Calder's*
approach; but, content that they had been seen,
the exhausted men engaged in no demonstration
of welcome.  They sat listlessly, with their
salt-rimmed eyes fixed upon their rescuers.

At a great risk of crushing the men in the water,
the destroyer closed.  The "Carley" was secured
and brought alongside, and the work of transferring
the survivors commenced.  Without assistance
the majority would never have been able to
gain the *Calder's* deck, so pitiful was their
condition owing to a night's exposure to the cold.

They were British seamen, but Sefton forbore to
question them until they had received attention
from the hard-worked Dr. Stirling, and been
supplied with food and drink from the already
sadly-depleted stores.

When the men had recovered sufficiently to
relate their adventures, they told a typical story of
British pluck and heroism.  They were part of the
crew of the destroyer *Velocity*, and had taken part
in a night attack upon von Hipper's squadron.

In the midst of the mêlée a hostile light cruiser,
tearing at 27 knots, rammed the *Velocity*, cutting
her completely in twain just abaft the after
engine-room bulkhead.  Swallowed up in the darkness,
the stern portion of the destroyer floated for nearly
ten minutes before it foundered.  Of what
happened to the remaining and larger part of the
vessel the survivors had no definite knowledge,
although some were under the impression that it
was towed away under fire by another destroyer.

Left with sufficient time to cut away a "Carley",
the remnant of the *Velocity's* crew found themselves
adrift, with the still engaging vessels steaming
farther and farther away.

Without food and almost destitute of clothing,
for in anticipation of a swim the men had taken
off the remainder of their already scanty "fighting-kit",
their position was a precarious one.  The
rising seas threatened to sweep them from the
over-crowded raft, while the bitterly cold night air
numbed their limbs.  Yet, with the characteristic
light-heartedness of the British tar, the men passed
the time in singing rousing choruses, even the
wounded joining in.

At daybreak they were pretty well exhausted.
No vessel was in sight.  They were without food
and water, and unable to take any steps to propel
their unwieldy, heavily-laden raft in any direction.

Presently a large German battle-cruiser loomed
through the mist.  The Huns must have had a bad
attack of nerves, for, contrary to all the dictates of
humanity, they let fly a dozen quick-firers at the
raft.  Possibly they mistook the low-lying object
for a submarine.  Fortunately the shells flew wide.

Then, to the surprise of the remnant of the
)Velocity's* crew, the German ship suddenly heaved
her bows clear of the water and disappeared in a
great smother of foam and a cloud of smoke.

A rousing cheer--it is wonderful how much sound
men can give vent to even when almost dead through
exhaustion--hailed this unexpected deliverance
from one of many perils, and the seamen settled
themselves to resume their prolonged discomforts,
buoyed up by the unshaken hope that a British
vessel would bear down to their assistance.

It was indeed remarkable how quickly most of
the *Velocity's* men regained their spirits after being
received on board the *Calder*.

One, in particular, was displaying acute anxiety
as to the condition of a bundle of one-pound notes,
which, sodden with sea-water, he had carefully
removed from the pouch of his solitary garment--a
body-belt.  Amidst a fire of good-natured chaff,
the man spread his precious belongings out to dry--an
almost impossible task owing to the showers
of spray--until, taken compassion upon by a
sympathetic stoker, he went below to the stokehold and
successfully completed the delicate operation.

Another survivor stuck gamely to a wooden
tobacco-box.  His messmates knew the secret, but,
when questioned by the *Calder's* men, he cautiously
opened the lid, displaying a couple of white rats.
Before going into action, the man, having doubts
as to the safety of his pets in the fo'c'sle, had
stealthily removed them aft, placing the box in the
officers' pantry.  When the *Velocity* was rammed
he did not forget his dumb friends.  At the risk
of his life, he went below and secured the box.
Throughout the long night he kept the animals
dry, only surrendering them to his chums when his
turn came to leap overboard and lighten the already
overcrowded life-buoy.

The rest of the day passed almost without incident.
Food was running short, for, in spite of the
sadly depleted number of the *Calder's* crew, there
was barely another day's provisions left on board
that had not been spoiled by fire and water.  In
addition, the augmentation of the ship's company
by the rescued crew made the shortage still more acute.

Just as night was coming on a petty officer
approached Sefton and saluted.

"For'ard bulkhead's giving, sir," he reported,
as coolly as if he were announcing a most trivial
occurrence.  "There's four feet of water in the
for'ard stokehold."

The safety of the *Calder* and her crew depended
upon that transverse wall of steel.  Once this
bulkhead yielded to the terrific pressure of water, no
human ingenuity and resource could save the
battered destroyer from plunging to the bed of the
North Sea.




CHAPTER XV--A Day of Suspense
=============================

"Confound the wretched thing, Sefton!"
exclaimed Major-General Crosthwaite explosively.

"I hereby confound it!" said his companion with
grim solemnity.  "I'll do anything you like,
provided you don't ask me to evacuate this luxurious
cushion and push."

"Now if I had my chauffeur here----" began
the General, then, realizing that his duty to his
country had necessitated the release of the man for
military service, he held his peace on that point,
only to break out in another direction.

"It's that horrible concoction that is sold as
petrol," he remarked with an air of profound
wisdom.  "Sixty per cent paraffin and ten per cent
water.  Nine o'clock in the evening, miles from
anywhere, and the idiotic car as obstinate as a mule."

Dick's father, enjoying a hard-earned fortnight's
leave after a strenuous time at the front, had
performed what he would have considered a desperate
task in pre-war days.  He had actually driven his
own motor--a twenty-horse-power touring-car--from
Shropshire to Southampton.  Luck, in the
shape of complete immunity from tyre troubles and
the two thousand odd things that might go wrong
with a car, had hitherto favoured him.  Whereat
he became conceited with his powers as a motorist;
but it was pride before a fall, and Major-General
Crosthwaite found himself stranded with his three
companions somewhere in the vicinity of the little
Wiltshire town of Malmesbury.

The eldest of the three passengers was Admiral
Trefusis Sefton, K.C.B. (retired), whose son Jack
was at that very moment engaged upon his
desperate venture of bringing the crippled *Calder*
across the North Sea.  Residing near Southampton,
he had accepted Crosthwaite Senior's invitation to
spend a long week-end at the latter's house near
Bridgnorth, and the Major-General thought it was
a good opportunity for having a motor-tour by
fetching his guest from the south of England.

"I'll take young George with me," wrote the
Major-General, "and there will be room in the car
for Leslie.  They can't get into worse mischief than
if they were left at home, and one will be company
for the other."

So George Crosthwaite accompanied his father
from Bridgnorth to Southampton.  Shrewdly the
fifteen-year old lad suspected that the primary
object of his sire was to let his son see what an
expert driver Crosthwaite Senior had become.

Leslie Sefton, also aged fifteen, jumped at the
invitation, and, in spite of various and oft-repeated
warnings from his parent not to skylark, his
exuberant spirits formed a sympathetic counterpart to
those of young George Crosthwaite.

Declining his son's offer of expert advice and
assistance, the general divested himself of his coat,
rolled up his shirt sleeves, inserted his monocle in
his eye, and spent four precious minutes in deep
contemplation of the stationary car.  Then he
applied rudimentary tests to half a dozen different
parts without locating the trouble, while the admiral
placidly smoked a choice cigar and meditated upon
the pleasing fact that he had never succumbed to
the motor craze.

George and Leslie, seated on a bank by the
roadside, were discussing the merits and demerits of
various types of aeroplanes when the former's
parent interrupted the pleasant discussion.

"George."

"Sir?"

"I want you to go into Malmesbury and get
them to send a car to tow us in."

Young Crosthwaite, unlike either of the two sons
in the parable, prepared to obey.  "Obey orders
at the double" had been dinned into his head from
time immemorial.  On one occasion when the
colonel--as he was then--was entertaining a high
War Office official, George, in his alacrity to carry
out his parent's behests, collided with the portly
butler bearing a heavily-laden tray.  But the
culprit's plea that he was fulfilling the oft-reiterated
order calmed the colonel's inward wrath (he dared
not "let himself go" just then) and earned a
substantial tip from the highly-amused guest.

"Coming?" asked George laconically, addressing
his chum.

"Rather," was the reply.

George threw his greatcoat into the car.  As he
did so, his sharp eyes caught sight of a tap that
was turned off when it should have been turned on.

Deftly he depressed the little lever, and,
somewhat to his parent's surprise, "tickled" the
carburetter.

"It's no use doing that," said the discomfited
motorist.  "Hurry up and be off.  We'll be
stranded here all night if you don't bestir yourself."

Crosthwaite Senior's astonishment increased when
the dutiful George climbed into the car and
released the self-starter.  The motor fired without
a hitch.

"By Jove!" ejaculated George's parent, too
delighted to think of thanking his son.  "However
did you manage it?"

"Only turned the petrol on," replied George calmly.

"Have you been playing any tricks----?" began
the general, then resolved to repeat the question
at a more favourable private opportunity.  "Jump
in, Sefton; we've wasted an hour already.  Might
have been in Gloucester by this time.  'Fraid we'd
better put up in Malmesbury to-night."

On the lowest gear, the car crawled slowly up
the stiff gradient leading to the little town, and
pulled up outside an ivy-clad inn within a stone's
throw of the imposing ruins of the abbey.

"Any news to-night, I wonder?" enquired the
general as the four sat down to a substantial supper.
"Suppose there's no chance of a late paper in this
out-of-the-way spot?"

"'Fraid not," replied the admiral.  "You see,
it is on a branch line.  Decent weather, eh?"

"Not so bad for our men in the North Sea,"
remarked Crosthwaite complacently.  "They've
had a long, rotten winter, although Dick never
complains on that score.  Must be quite yachty
weather, I should imagine," he added, with the
memories of a certain pleasure cruise to the Baltic
in June flashing across his mind.

He picked up a morning paper from a settee and
glanced at it.  He had read the selfsame news
fourteen hours previously.  Yet a paragraph had
hitherto escaped his notice.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed.

"What's that?" enquired the admiral.

"Suppose, after all, it's nothing much," observed
General Crosthwaite.  "Masters of neutral steamers
arriving at Danish ports state that they sighted
numerous wrecks and hundreds of floating corpses.
Another Reuter yarn, I take it."

"More U-boat frightfulness perhaps," hazarded
Admiral Sefton.

And yet the report was a mild form of paving
the way towards the announcement of the Jutland
battle.  This was on Friday.  Already Germany
had claimed a glorious and colossal naval victory,
and the tardiness of the British Government in
giving the lie direct to the boastful Hunnish claims
gave, at least temporarily, a severe shock to
neutrals' belief in the invincibility of Britain's sea
power.  Already American pro-German papers had
appeared with highly coloured accounts of Great
Britain's crushing naval disaster; cartoons
depicting John Bull's consternation at the return of the
battered British lion with a badly twisted tail spoke
volumes for the incontestable superiority of the
German navy.

Happily ignorant of the disquieting rumours,
and, indeed, of any knowledge of the naval action,
the motorists slept soundly until eight on the
following morning.

"Another fine day," declared Crosthwaite Senior
at breakfast.  "We ought to be home by three in
the afternoon.  Any papers yet?" he enquired of
the waiter.

"No, sir, not until eleven," was the reply.

"Must wait until we get to Gloucester, I suppose,"
grunted the general.  "One of the penalties
for stopping at a place on a branch line."

"A fine little place, Pater," remarked George.
"Absolutely top-hole.  Wish we were staying
here.  There's an awfully decent stream down
there--looks just the place for fishing."

"Can't beat the Severn for that, my boy,"
declared his father, loyal to his native town and the
river that flows past its site.  "Buck up, my boy,
and finish the packing.  I want to see that that
petrol-tank is properly filled--no unsealed cans,
remember."

George Crosthwaite was really a useful assistant
to his parent.  Crosthwaite Senior frankly
recognized the fact, but forbore from giving his son,
personally, due credit, avowing that it was bad for
discipline to be lavish with praise.

"Smart youngster, Sefton, my boy," he declared
in proud confidence to the admiral.  "He has his
head screwed on the right way, although I suppose
I ought not to brag about it.  Have to be careful,
though, that he doesn't kick over the traces just yet."

It was nearly nine before the car was ready to
resume its journey.  In high spirits, for the bracing
air and bright sunshine made a perfect day, the
party set off.

Major-General Crosthwaite started at a strictly
moderate pace.  He invariably did; but it was
always noticeable that, before he had covered many
miles, he accelerated the speed until it reached a
reckless pace bordering on fifty miles an hour.
Towards the end of his day's journey, he would
develop a speed that caused his sedate passengers
to quake with apprehension, and his youthful ones
to revel in the terrific rush through the air.

Twenty minutes after leaving Malmesbury the
car, now running splendidly, bounded up the steep
ascent into old-world Tetbury.  Here, taking a
wrong turning, the motorists had to retrace their
way, Crosthwaite Senior slowing down in order to
avoid a similar mistake.

Presently Leslie caught sight of a placard
displayed outside a news-agent's shop.  In flaring
red letters were the words: "Big Naval Action
in the North Sea".

Leaning over the seat he gripped his father's
arm.  By this time the car was well beyond the shop.

"What's wrong?" bawled the admiral, for the
wind-screen had been lowered and the breeze was
whistling past his ears.

"Big scrap in the North Sea--it's on the
placards," replied his son,

"Heave-to, Crosthwaite!" exclaimed Admiral
Sefton.  "Stop here!"

The driver, imagining that something was amiss,
and that he had unknowingly run over something,
applied his emergency brakes, bringing up his car
all standing and at a grave risk to the tyres.
Leslie, taken unawares, shot forward, "ramming"
his parent in the small of the back with his head
and forcing the admiral against the dash-board.

"What the----!" began the astonished Crosthwaite Senior.

Almost unconscious of the rough treatment by
his son, Admiral Sefton descended from the car.
Already George had executed a flying leap, and
was running towards the news-agent's shop.

Returning with a handful of papers he met the
admiral half-way.

"It's 'The Day', sir!" he exclaimed, confident
in the belief that the long-expected struggle for
naval supremacy had been settled once and for all
in Britain's favour.

Admiral Sefton grabbed the proffered paper with
super-energy, almost tearing the flimsy fabric with
his powerful fingers as he fumbled with the
recalcitrant leaves.

Then the look of eager expectancy faded from
his face, giving place to a dull, strained expression
of incredulity.

"Come along, Sefton!" sang out Crosthwaite
Senior.  "Don't be greedy with the good news.
Why, man----"

"We've got it properly in the neck, Pater,"
announced his son.  "Fourteen of ours, including
the *Queen Mary*, sunk."

"But the enemy--the German losses are heavier
than ours?" enquired the general, snatching at the
paper George was holding.

The two officers scanned the official report.
"Owing to low visibility"--was ever an Admiralty
dispatch issued with such halting excuses?  A
straightforward admission of our losses, it is true,
but nothing to suggest that the Germans had
incurred similar or heavier casualties, or even that
the British navy had gained the day.  And then
there was the perplexing statement that the
Germans had rescued a number of British seamen,
and no corresponding report to the effect that we
had saved any of theirs.  Everything pointed to a
running fight in which the Huns were the pursuers.

Admiral Sefton was dumbfounded.  Had there
been a convenient wall, he might have turned his
face towards it and groaned in spirit.  Instead he
set his jaw tightly and thought hard.

"What do you make of it?" enquired the general.
"Looks bad on the face of it, eh?"

"We must wait for further details," was his
companion's guarded reply.  The journey was resumed,
but all the joy had vanished from the minds of the
party.  No longer, the beautiful scenery appealed
to them; the crisp, bracing air and brilliant
sunshine called in vain.

Down the steep "hairpin" road through Nailsworth,
and along one of the prettiest valleys of the
Cotswolds, the car literally crawled.  General
Crosthwaite, contrary to his usual practice, was driving
slowly and listlessly.  His keen zest had
disappeared.  As he gripped the steering-wheel he
thought deeply, remembering that his son was
somewhere out there in the trackless, mine-strewn
North Sea.

The admiral, too, was meditating.  He would
dearly have liked to have paced to and fro, with his
hands clasped behind his back in true quarter-deck
style; but since the limits of the car made such a
proceeding impossible, and it was equally difficult
to alight unless the car stopped, he "sat tight"
and made a mental review of the battle, constructing
his theories upon the slender foundations
conveyed in the official report.

Gradually his perplexities vanished.  The firm
belief in the well-being of the navy that had gripped
his mind ever since those long-past *Britannia* days
was not to be shattered by a disquieting and
obviously incomplete report, even though it bore
Admiralty endorsement.

"Hang it all!" he exclaimed, startling his
friend by bawling into Crosthwaite Senior's ear.
"Hanged if I'll go by that report.  Just you wait,
my dear fellow, until supplementary information is
forthcoming.  It's my belief the Admiralty have
something up their sleeve, and that we've won
hands down."

"You think so?" asked the general eagerly.

"Think so!  I know it," was the now decided
reply.  "Carry on, Crosthwaite, full-speed ahead,
and we'll see what news there is when we get to
Gloucester."

"Hope you're right," thought the army officer.
Visions of a previous naval disaster--that of the
gallant Craddock's defeat off Coronel, the first news
of which came from German sources--urged that
such a thing as a naval defeat might be possible,
especially in view of the great part played by chance.
A misunderstood order might result in disaster.
A chance shot or an accidental internal explosion
might imperil the superiority of the British fleet.

But there was always the dominating factor--men,
not ships, win battles.  The British seaman,
with the glorious traditions of centuries behind
him, is in every way superior to the brute who
mans the fleet of the Black Cross Ensign.

Then the general found himself mentally kicking
himself for not sharing in the admiral's optimism.

"Sefton's right," he concluded.  "When we
get more news we'll find that all's well."

At Gloucester the admiral sent off a telegram,
bought four different papers, scanned the bulletins
in the windows of the publishing offices, and found
himself little wiser than before; but at Worcester,
where the motorists stopped for lunch, they found
the outlook much brighter.

Steps had already been taken to counteract the
depressing effects of the preliminary official
announcement of the Battle of Jutland.  The loss of
the *Warspite* and *Marlborough*, both ships having
been claimed as sunk by the Germans, was
categorically denied, and a statement of the British
vessels, known to be sunk, given.  Enemy ships,
aggregating in tonnage more than that of our
losses, were claimed only when definite reports of
their fate were received, from which it was now
evident that, far from being a German victory, the
honours rested with the fleet under Jellicoe's command.

At the post office Admiral Sefton obtained a wire,
sent in reply to his telegram from Gloucester.  It
was from an old shipmate, now holding an appointment
at Whitehall, and was as follows:--

"Vessel in question has not returned to base."

Without a word the admiral handed the buff
paper to his friend.  Hardly a muscle of
Crosthwaite Senior's weather-beaten face moved as he
read the momentous but indefinite news, although
the "vessel in question" was the T.B.D. *Calder*,
and both men had similar personal interests in the
matter.

For the moment private considerations held
supreme sway.  The two men mutually extended
their right hands and exchanged sympathetic grips.

"If they are knocked out, it was in the thick of
the scrap," declared General Crosthwaite.  "I'll
stake my all upon that."

"*Dulce et*----" began the admiral, then, coming
to the conclusion that he was a trifle premature,
he exclaimed: "Dash it all, Crosthwaite, strange
things happen at sea!  They may turn up after all."

"It's the suspense," added Crosthwaite.  "Look
here, I'll take the car right slap on to Edinburgh,
and go on to Rosyth.  Are you game?"

"Carry on," said Admiral Sefton.  "I'm with you."




CHAPTER XVI--The Struggle in the Mountain Pass
==============================================

Near the summit of Blackstone Edge, an
unfrequented road running at a height of between 1200
and 1300 feet over the serrated Pennine Hills, five
men were lying upon the short, dark-green grass
in a slight hollow within ten yards of the highway.
There was little about their appearance that
demanded attention.  A casual observer might in
pardonable error have taken them for a party of
Lancashire mill operatives out for a day's enjoyment.

At intervals one of the party would roll over on
his side, produce a pair of prismatic glasses from
his pocket, and peer with considerable caution over
the ridge of the hollow, focusing the binoculars
upon the winding ribbon-like "slag" road that
ascended steeply from the town of Rochdale, the
factory chimneys of which were just discernible
through the murky Lancashire atmosphere.  Then,
with a guttural grunt that betokened disappointment,
he would replace the glasses and relapse into
a stolid contemplation of his silent comrades.  The
hot sun pouring pitilessly upon the heavily-clad
men did not tend to improve their physical
comfort.  Several times they cursed the tormenting
flies, expressing their murmured epithets in the
German tongue.

At last one of the men spoke.

"Are you sure that he is coming this way,
Hans?" he asked, addressing the man with the
binoculars.  "Perhaps he has taken it into his
head to take the other road--the Stanedge Pass,
it is called."

"These Englishmen are so pig-headed that they
rarely change their minds," replied Hans.  "It is
often as well that they do not.  I have it on
excellent authority that he leaves Liverpool at nine,
addresses a conference at Bolton at eleven, and
receives a deputation at Rochdale at two.  Now, is
it conceivable that he would go a roundabout way
to Halifax when this is the shortest and easiest route?"

"He may take the railway train," suggested
another of the band, as he shifted an automatic
pistol from his hip pocket, where it seriously
interfered with his ease, to his breast coat pocket.

"Knowing our man as I do," declared Hans,
"I do not think it likely, unless his motor breaks
down over these atrocious cobbled roads.  No, I
think we are soon to meet our expected visitor.
Now, are you all thoroughly acquainted with your
duties?  There must be no failure.  Even partial
success is not sufficient.  Complete obliteration of
the man, a final disappearance, is what is required,
and what must be accomplished."

A resolute chorus of assent rose from the four
subordinates.  Their leader, levelling his
binoculars, studied the road for the twentieth time.

The five were members of a German Secret Service
agency.  Provided with registration cards, obtained
with the greatest ease, since no attempt had been
made to verify the particulars demanded by law;
speaking English with a flawless Lancashire
accent, members of a trade union, and fully
conversant with the peculiarities of industrial life, the
men were able to carry on their nefarious scheme
with little risk of detection.

After a run of minor activities, an opportunity
was about to occur whereby they might render an
important service to the Fatherland.  A high official
was engaged upon an industrial tour of Lancashire
and Yorkshire, with the intention of increasing the
already huge output of munitions from the factories
temporarily given over to the production of
war-like stores.  The magnetic personality of the man
made the task an easy one to him, although others
less gifted would have encountered nothing but
opposition had they proposed the same conditions
to the independent operatives of Lancashire and
Yorkshire.  He was one of the very few Government
officials who understood the northern
temperament.  When others would have "rubbed them
up the wrong way", this level-headed statesman
was able to enlist the whole-hearted sympathies
of blunt and outspoken audiences.  His persuasive
powers were worth an army corps to the
Commander-in-Chief of the British troops in France.

The five Germans had laid their plans well.
Their proposed operations had met with full
approval from head-quarters at Berlin, and the result
of their efforts was anxiously awaited by the
German Government.  Since abduction left a loophole
in the complete furtherance of the plot, Teutonic
thoroughness and frightfulness had devised a more
drastic plan.

At the summit of the Blackstone Edge is a large
lake or reservoir, its unfenced sides shelving steeply
to a depth, in a certain place, of fifty feet.  It would
be a comparatively simple matter to wreck the car,
murder its occupants if they still survived the fall
from the overturned vehicle, and topple the
wreckage into the dark waters of the mountain lake.

A cloud passed athwart the sun.  The sweltering
heat gave place to a piercing cold.  The Huns
shivered in the cold wind and grumbled at the
keenness of the English June.  Overhead three
gaunt crows flew, cawing dismally.  With
Teutonic superstition one of the men called his
companions' attention to the ill omen.

"Nonsense, Otto!" protested the man known as
Hans.  "The ill luck is directed against the man
for whom we are waiting so patiently.  Ha!  Here
comes the car."

With their heads just showing above the ridge,
the five kept the approaching motor under close
observation.  It was climbing rapidly, leaving in
its wake a cloud of dust that drifted slowly across
the deep valley on the left-hand side of the curve.
Presently an unmistakable rasping sound
announced the fact that the driver, finding the
gradient too severe, had let in the lowest gear.

"Are you certain it is he?" asked one of the
Huns.  "There are four in the car?"

"Did you suppose he would travel alone?"
retorted his leader.  "That is he right enough--the
man in civilian clothes.  The other is a military
staff officer.  The red in his cap proves that.  The
younger men are doubtless his secretaries--valets
perhaps.  Yes, it is our man.  Now, make ready."

Giving a glance in the opposite direction in order
to make certain that no one was approaching from
the Yorkshire side of the Pass, Hans cautiously
placed a small battery within easy reach of his fat,
podgy fingers.  From the battery ran a couple of fine
wires through the stretch of grass, terminating at
an inconspicuous greyish object lying in the centre
of the road in the midst of a scatter of loose stones.

At the critical moment a touch upon the firing-key
of the battery and----

----

"Why are you so keen upon the East Coast
route, Crosthwaite?" asked the admiral.  "It's a
jolly sight longer."

"That I admit," replied the general.  "But I
know it, which makes a vast difference.  The Carlisle
road is jolly rough, especially over Shap Summit."

"By the by, George, here is a little problem for
you," said Admiral Sefton.  "Which is the farthest
west, Liverpool or Edinburgh?"

George looked at Leslie for assistance.  That
worthy, having heard the question put many times
before, took an astonishing interest in a policeman
at the street corner.

"Well, sir," replied George, "Liverpool is on
the west coast; Edinburgh on the east----"

"Within a few miles," corrected the admiral.
"Therefore I should imagine that Liverpool is
more to the west."

"Then look it up on the map," exclaimed
Admiral Sefton triumphantly.  "You'll find you're
wrong.  That's why I couldn't understand your
father's intention of keeping to the East Coast
route until he explained his preference."

"We'll do it quicker, too," rejoined Crosthwaite,
Senior.  "Once we're clear of the outskirts of
Manchester we'll reel off the miles like winking.
Here you are: Rochdale, Halifax, Bradford, and
Harrogate, striking the Great North Road at
Boroughbridge."

The journey was resumed, the admiral, as before,
sitting with Crosthwaite Senior, while George and
Leslie, comfortably ensconced in the rear seats, were
surreptitiously examining a formidable-looking
air-pistol that Leslie Sefton had smuggled into his
portmanteau.

It was modelled after a Service weapon, having
the same weight and balance.  The barrel was
rifled, and was capable of sending a lead slug with
considerable force and low trajectory from a distance
of fifty yards.

"We'll take pot shots at rabbits on the way,"
declared Leslie.  "The governor won't hear the
sound.  It makes very little noise, and the engine
will drown that.  There'll be hundreds of bunnies
up there," and he pointed to the still-distant
outlines of the frowning Pennines.

Up and up, out of the dreary manufacturing
district, the car climbed, until the moist smoky
atmosphere of the cotton-mills gave place to the
keen bracing air of the hills.

Both lads, alive to the possibilities of using the
air-pistol, hung on to the side of the car, their eyes
roving the grass-land in the hope of spotting a
likely target.

The car had been climbing on low gear, but now
the gradient became less.  The travellers were
nearing the summit of Blackstone Edge.

Suddenly Leslie levelled the weapon, aiming at
what he took to be the body of a rabbit showing
above the top of a hillock.  He was on the point of
pressing the trigger when a loud crash, followed
by a cloud of smoke and dust immediately behind
the car, almost caused the pistol to drop from his grasp.

"What's that?" exclaimed Admiral Sefton.

"Tyre burst, I'm afraid," replied Crosthwaite
Senior, momentarily expecting the car to swerve.
Applying the brakes he brought the car to a standstill,
with the engine still running, and prepared to
investigate the extent of the damage.

The Huns' carefully-laid plans had gone awry
through Leslie Sefton's instrumentality.  The lad
had mistaken one of the miscreants' caps for a rabbit.
Hans, under the impression that the attempt had
been discovered, and that one of the occupants of
the car was levelling a pistol at him, suddenly lost
his nerve.  He depressed the firing-key of the
battery a second or so too late.  Instead of the
detonation occurring immediately underneath the
motor, it expended its force harmlessly in the air.

"By Jove, Crosthwaite!" exclaimed the admiral
as a rapid fusillade was opened upon the stationary
car.  "Modern highwaymen!"

"Keep down, lads," ordered the general sharply,
for the nickel bullets were singing overhead like a
swarm of angry bees.  "Under the seat, Sefton.
Be sharp!"

"Never!" expostulated the admiral sturdily.

"Not you, I mean," almost roared his companion
by way of apology.  "You'll find a Webley under
the seat.  Look alive, man!  It's loaded only in
one chamber."

Leslie Sefton's first impulse was to duck, until
remembering that he still held a loaded weapon,
although it was but an air-pistol, in his hand, he
rested the barrel upon the padded back of the seat
and aimed at the nearest of the assailants.

It was an excellent shot.  The little bullet struck
Hans just above the right eye.  With an oath the
German clapped both hands to his injury, dropping
his pistol as he did so, and began to dance round
and round in agony.

"Four to four now," exclaimed the lad, taking
into no account the fact that the supposed highwaymen
were all well armed.  He jerked back the
barrel of the air-pistol and inserted another pellet,
the zest of the fight gripping him with the utmost
intensity.

Meanwhile Crosthwaite Senior had let in the
clutch, and had succeeded in turning the car in the
direction of the attackers.  Altogether unprepared
for this manoeuvre, the four separated, two making
to the right, and the others, keeping close together,
edging away to the left, still maintaining a hot and
erratic fire.

Bending low behind the wind-screen, the plate-glass
of which was already "starred" in several
places by the impact of the bullets, the general
urged the car straight in the direction of the men
on his left.  Even as he did so, the admiral, who
had discovered the loaded revolver, blazed away on
his left, with the result that Otto lost all present
and future interest in the welfare of the Fatherland.

"Lucky shot," exclaimed Admiral Sefton
modestly.  "Very lucky shot.  In the centre of
his fat forehead, by Jove!"

Only on rare occasions, since those far-off days
when he was a young lieutenant, had the retired
naval officer handled a revolver, but his skill and
deadly precision remained.  Leisure hours, spent
with his favourite dog and gun amidst his preserves,
had done much to keep the hardy admiral's eye as
bright and his hand as steady as of yore, when his
revolver practice was the envy of his messmates on
the old gunnery-ship Excellent.

Ejecting the empty cartridge case, the admiral
loaded all six chambers.  Then, ready to resume
the encounter, he again levelled the weapon, at the
same time protesting audibly that the first shot was
a mere fluke.

Giving scant heed to his friend's remarks, Crosthwaite
Senior kept the car full in the direction of
his particular quarry.  Over the low bank bordering
the road the heavy vehicle mounted, lurching
dangerously as it did so.  Only by sheer chance
did it escape being capsized, as the offside wheels
rose three feet clear of the soft, grass-grown soil.

"Dash it all, Crosthwaite!" protested the admiral.
"Fairly spoiled my shot that time.  Easy ahead,
man, or you'll have us all overboard."

Loud yells from another of the Huns showed
that the admiral's second shot, if not so deadly as
the first, had "scored an outer".  Leaving his
companions to continue the treacherous attack, the
wounded man ran as fast as he could, still bellowing
with pain, and holding his coat tails with both hands.

Only two Huns remained.  Wildly firing, they
stood their ground until the car was within a few
feet of them.

In his keenness Major-General Crosthwaite had
not taken sufficient notice of the nature of the
ground.  Mounting a steep hillock, the car swerved
and toppled completely over, pinning the admiral
beneath the chassis and throwing the other
occupants headlong upon the turf.

In a flash the two Germans seized their opportunity.
One, levelling his automatic pistol, fired
point-blank at the prostrate general, the bullet
passing completely through his uplifted arm and
flattening itself against his silver cigar-case.  Before
the miscreant could load again--it was the last
cartridge in the magazine--George flung himself
upon him.

The remaining Hun, finding that his automatic
weapon was likewise empty, and mindful of Leslie's
brandished air-pistol, was chary of closing with the
lad.  Incautiously, young Sefton levelled the pistol
and fired, the pellet merely penetrating the
German's coat and waistcoat, and inflicting a slight
scratch on his chest.

In a trice, the Hun guessed the comparatively
feeble nature of the British lad's weapon.  He
knew that seconds would have to elapse before the
air-pistol could be reloaded.  Mentally comparing
his size with that of the fifteen-year-old youth, he
came to the conclusion that it was safe to close.

Leslie, far from declining the unspoken
challenge, threw himself at his opponent, and two
pairs of desperately earnest antagonists were locked
in deadly combat.  It was long odds, for, with
Crosthwaite Senior helpless with a bullet through
his arm, and the admiral imprisoned beneath the
overturned car, no help seemed likely to be
forthcoming from that direction.  To make matters
worse, Hans, the leader of the gang, having
quieted down after the first acute pain, had seen
how things stood, and, recovering his pistol, had
cautiously approached, seeking a favourable
opportunity to turn the already-wavering scale.




CHAPTER XVII--Safe in Port
==========================

Throughout the long-drawn night the survivors
of the *Calder's* crew battled manfully against
increasing difficulties in their efforts to save the
destroyer from foundering.  The faulty bulkhead,
shored and barricaded with tightly-packed
hammocks and other canvas gear, required constant
watching.  The pumps were working continuously,
relays of men undertaking the arduous task in the
high-spirited manner that pervades the navy,
especially when confronted with danger and peril.

Not once during the hours of darkness did Sefton
quit the remnants of the bridge.  Without the aid
of navigating instruments, save the inadequate
compass, the destroyer's course could not be
maintained with the customary precision.  Variation
and deviation--factors carefully guarded against in
ordinary circumstances--were affecting the boat's
liquid compass, but to what extent Sefton knew
not.  With a vague idea that he would "fetch"
the Firth of Forth, the sub held on, the grinding
revolutions of the remaining propeller dinning into
his ears the knowledge that the old *Calder* was
momentarily, but slowly, approaching the shores
of Britain.

A cup of unfragrant tea, sweetened with
condensed milk, and a biscuit which was strongly
scented with a peculiarly acrid smell, were
gratefully accepted by the wellnigh exhausted sub.  The
man who brought the refreshments to the bridge
had not thought it necessary to explain that he had
scraped the sodden tea from the floor of the
shell-wrecked officers'-pantry, or that he had been
compelled to wash the salt water from the biscuits and
toast them in the stokehold.

Once more the waves had subsided, and an
almost flat calm prevailed.  Overhead a few stars
shone dimly through the haze.  Not a light was
visible; all around, sea and sky blended in a dark,
ill-defined murk.

At four bells the helmsman was relieved.  He
was the seventh consecutive man whom Sefton had
seen taking his trick at the wheel, but still the sub
stuck gamely at his post.  He would have given
almost anything to throw himself at full length
upon the dewy deck and sleep like a log, even for
a couple of hours, but such a privilege was denied
him.  His wounds, too, although slight, were
beginning to feel painfully stiff.  The sea-water,
penetrating his ragged uniform, irritated the abrasions
almost beyond endurance.  He yearned in vain for
a hot bath and a change of clothing.

"How goes it now?" enquired a tired voice,
hardly recognizable as that of Dr. Stirling.
"Where are we?"

"Somewhere in the North Sea, old bird," replied
Sefton, with a forced laugh.  "Do you happen to
have a prescription for an eyelid prop, Pills?  My
optics seem on the point of becoming bunged up."

"Tell it not in Gath," quoted the surgeon.
"I've just made a discovery--worth at the present
moment more than untold gold.  Egyptian, man,
real Egyptian, and the only ones to be found on
board."

He proffered his silver case.  Sefton seized one
of the cigarettes with avidity.  For hours he had
longed in vain for a smoke.  His own supply had
vanished.  Several hundred, having fallen through
a jagged rent in the ward-room floor, were lying,
a sodden pulp, in the water that surged in the
ship's bilges.

"Thanks awfully!" he exclaimed gratefully.

"Bit of luck," continued Stirling.  "Found the
case in the wreckage of the beer barrel.  I don't
think the stuff's affected them.  Case seems pretty
tight.  Thought I'd come on deck and have half a
dozen whiffs with you."

Crouching under the lee of the canvas screen
that had been rigged up to replace the demolished
storm-dodgers, Sefton carefully struck a match.
Almost before the cigarette was alight, a jarring
shock made the *Calder* tremble from her shattered
bows to her jagged taffrail.  Immediately
afterwards the remaining engine began to race with
frightful rapidity.

Dropping the cigarette like a hot cinder, Sefton
sprang to his feet, fully convinced that the
long-expected catastrophe had occurred, and that the
bulkhead had given way.  Stirling, his first
thoughts for his patients, scurried down the
bridge-ladder and ran aft to where the double line of
wounded men lay, each covered by a hammock
to protect him from the night dews and drifting spray.

A minute passed.  There was no impetuous
inrush of water.  The bulkhead was still holding.
The engine-room ratings had shut off steam, and
the horrible, nerve-racking clank of the racing
machinery ceased.

"Propeller fouled some wreckage, sir," reported
a petty officer.  "Blades stripped clean off the
boss I'll allow."

The man was right in his surmise.  The last of
the four propellers had struck some partly
submerged object, with the result that the destroyer
was no longer capable of moving through the
water under her own power.  All she could do
was to drift helplessly with wind and tide.

With a deafening hiss, a heavy cloud of steam
released from the now useless boilers escaped
skywards.  The overworked engine-room and stokehold
staffs were at last at liberty to "stand easy".

Suddenly a beam of dazzling white light flashed
through the darkness.  Impinging upon the cloud
of steam, its reflected glare illumined the scene on
deck as clearly as if it had been broad daylight.
Then, with a quick, decisive movement, the giant
ray was depressed, until it played fairly upon the
battered hull, throwing every object into strong
relief, and literally blinding the men with its dazzling
glare.

"What ship is that?" shouted a deep voice
through a megaphone, the sound travelling
distinctly across the intervening water.

A couple of cables' lengths from the stationary
*Calder* was a large destroyer, with her search-light
directed upon the object of her enquiry.

Sefton's reply was inaudible.  The direction of
the wind and the lack of a megaphone prevented
his words from being understood.  Again the
challenge was repeated.

Standing erect in the full glare of the
searchlight, and apart from his companions, a petty
officer semaphored the desired information.

"Stand by to receive a hawser," commanded the
lieutenant-commander of the unknown destroyer.
"We'll take you in tow."

The vessel was T.B.D. *Basher*, one of the inner
patrol of destroyers operating between St. Abb's
Head and Spurn Point.  Pelting along at 20
knots in the darkness, her first intimation of the
proximity of the crippled *Calder* was the hiss of
steam from her boilers.  Prepared to open fire at
an instant's notice, she trained her quick-firers
abeam and switched on her search-lights, only to
discover that she had fortunately fallen in with a
"lame duck" from the Jutland battle--a craft
whose absence was beginning to give rise to
considerable apprehension on the part of the British
Admiralty.

"You'll tow better stern-foremost, I fancy,"
shouted the *Basher's* skipper, as he noted the
extent to which the *Calder* was down by the head.

"Yes, sir," agreed Sefton.  "There will be less
pressure upon the bulkhead for'ard.  It has been
giving us some anxiety."

"Is Crosthwaite on board?" enquired the
lieutenant-commander of the rescuing craft.

"Badly wounded," was the sub's reply.  "We
had it fairly hot for a time.  Can you give us any
details of the result of the action, sir?"

"Yes; we gave them a terrific licking," said the
skipper of the *Basher*.  "The rotten part was that
the Huns got away during the night.  Still, they
won't come out again in a hurry.  They've been
very busy ever since sending out fantastic claims
to a decisive victory over the British fleet.  On
paper they certainly beat us hollow, but the funny
part about it is that Jellicoe made a demonstration
in force off the Bight of Heligoland yesterday, and
the beggars funked the invitation.  By the by, the
sea's fairly calm.  We'll run alongside and
tranship your wounded.  It will save a lot of bother if
you have to abandon ship."

Adroitly manoeuvred in the darkness, for the
search-lights were now screened lest a prowling
U boat might take advantage of the motionless
British destroyers, the *Basher* was made fast to
her disabled consort.  Carefully the wounded men
were transferred, Dr. Stirling, at the sub's request,
going with them, since the *Basher* was one of a
class of destroyers without the services of a medical man.

There was one exception.  Crosthwaite resolutely
declined to leave his ship.

"She's brought us through thus far," he declared,
"and I'll stick to her until we fetch home.
Where are we now?"

Sefton was unable to reply until he had enquired
of the *Basher's* navigating officer the position of the
ship.  The answer was somewhat astonishing; the
*Calder*, when picked up, was forty-five miles from
the mouth of the Tyne.

"A precious fine piece of navigation," remarked
the sub ruefully.  "I was trying to make the Firth
of Forth, and instead I find myself barging into
the Northumberland coast."

"Might have done a jolly sight worse, old man,"
said Crosthwaite cheerfully.  "You're a brick, Sefton!"

The sub flushed like a schoolgirl, and, bolting
from the shell-wrecked ward-room, made for the bridge.

"All clear aft?" shouted the *Basher's*
lieutenant-commander.

"Aye, aye, sir," was the reply from a petty
officer stationed at the after capstan, round which
the towing-hawser had been made fast.

"Cast off fore and after springs," continued the
officer, telegraphing for "Half ahead, port engine".

Very cautiously the towing-craft forged ahead,
turning sixteen points in almost her own length.
In the darkness the manoeuvre was fraught with
anxiety, for, had the slack of the hawser fouled the
*Basher's* propellers, the destroyer would have been
as helpless as the craft she was endeavouring to save.

At length the wire hawser began to groan as,
under the increased strain, it rasped through the
fair-lead.  Ever so slowly, yet surely, the *Calder*
gathered stern way in the wake of her consort, and
presently she was nearing the Tyne at a rate of
7-½ knots.

With her helm lashed amidships, and without
means of steering, the partly waterlogged craft
yawed horribly, sheering alternately four points
to port and starboard of the towing-vessel.  Yet
it was the only practical means of getting the
destroyer into port.  Had she been towed bows
first, the already-weakened for'ard bulkhead would
assuredly have collapsed under the additional
pressure of water.

"We may fetch Tynemouth," thought Sefton,
as he watched the *Calder's* erratic movements, "but
she'll never be able to ascend the river.  She'll be
barging into the banks and playing the deuce with
everything."

He could think of nothing to check the damaged
destroyer's behaviour.  A scope of the cable
trailing from the hawse-pipe might have served, had
not anchors, struck by several projectiles, been
immovably jammed in the hawse-pipes.

The same problem also confronted the skipper of
the *Basher*, but he quickly settled it by wirelessing
for a tug.

Dawn was just breaking when the *Calder* arrived
off Tynemouth.  A powerful paddle-tug was lashed
alongside, and the voyage up the river began.

In the busy shipyards on either side of the Tyne,
the night shifts were still hard at work turning out
new vessels for the British navy at the rate of one
and a half a week, in addition to effecting urgent
repairs to ships damaged in action or by floating mines.

"Lads," shouted a burly iron-caulker in
stentorian tones, "here be a German prize bein' towed
up t' river."

"Garn!" retorted his mate.  "German prize,
my aunt!  You don't see no German flag a-flyin;
under that British ensign.  She's one of our plucky
'uns.  Give her three times three, mates!"

The cheering, caught up with redoubled energy,
greeted the battered *Calder* throughout the whole
length of her progress up the river.  Her wounded
lieutenant-commander, lying helpless in his bunk,
heard the inspiring sound.  He knew what it
meant.  A load had been lifted off his mind.  His
command was safe in port.




CHAPTER XVIII--Too Late!
========================

"Eight days' leave--both watches."

The welcome order was given to the survivors of
the *Calder's* crew with a promptitude that betokened
official regard and appreciation of the plucky
destroyer's ship's company.

The *Calder*, safe in dock, was handed over to the
care of the shipyard authorities.  At high pressure,
the task of getting her ready for sea once more
would occupy the best part of two months, so badly
had she been knocked about.

When in dry dock, a discovery was made that
showed how narrow her escape had been from
instant destruction.  A large-sized German torpedo
was found in her flooded forepeak, its head
flattened against the inside of the bow-plates.  Fired
at a distance of a few yards, it had passed
completely through the thin metal hull, and, failing
to penetrate the other side, had remained trapped
in the waterlogged compartment.  Examination
showed that the safety-fan in the head of the weapon
had not had sufficient time to revolve and liberate
the firing-pin.  A difference of a few yards would
have been enough to transform the innocuous
missile into a deadly weapon, capable of shattering
the *Calder* like an egg-shell.

Having written up his report to the Commander-in-Chief,
seen Crosthwaite safely into a shore
hospital, and dispatched a telegram to his home
announcing his safe return, Sefton bathed and
turned in.

Six hours later he was up, feeling considerably
refreshed.  All that had to be done in an official
sense had been carried out, and he was free to
proceed on well-earned leave.

A steam pinnace landed him and his scanty
belongings on the Gateshead side of the river.
Clad in mufti, since his uniform was little more
than a collection of scorched rags, the sub made
his way towards the station.

Perhaps, now that the arduous period of responsibility
had passed, Sefton was feeling the reaction.
At any rate his usual alertness had temporarily
deserted him, for, on crossing a crowded thoroughfare,
he narrowly escaped being knocked down by
a passing motor-car.

"Why don't you look----?" began the owner of
the car; then: "Bless my soul, Sefton!  Whoever
expected to see you here!  Thought you had been
done in, 'pon my soul I did.  Where's the *Calder*?
And how's old Crosthwaite?"

The speaker was Sub-lieutenant Farnworth,
Sefton's old shipmate on board the *Hammerer*,
where both had served as midshipmen during the
earlier stages of the war.

"They slung me out of the submarine service,"
said Farnworth, after Sefton had briefly replied
to his friend's enquiries.  "Why?  Oh, merely
a bit of bad luck!  Crocked my leg, don't you know."

Farnworth was too modest to give details.  He
had vivid recollections of a dirty day in the North
Sea, with submarine E-- lying awash, and a hostile
mine foul of her bows.  The plucky young officer,
assisted by a couple of equally resolute seamen,
succeeded in freeing the submarine from the
unwelcome attentions of the metal globe, but in so
doing the mooring-chain had surged, fracturing
Farnworth's thigh as the heavy mine dropped clear.

It took three months at Haslar Hospital, followed
by six weeks at Osborne, to set matters right, but
the sub's leg was permanently shortened.  To his
great relief, Farnworth was not invalided out of
the Service, although unfit for sea.  He was given
a good billet in the Intelligence Department, his
district covering the Tyne ports, Hull, and Liverpool.

With a powerful car at his disposal, Farnworth
was in clover.  His sole regret was his inability to
tread the planks of a British war-ship.  The call of
the sea was strong.  He would willingly have
relinquished his "cushy job" to be in command of
the slowest little torpedo-boat flying the White Ensign.

"I'm keeping you," said Sefton at length.

"Not at all," said Farnworth, with a grin.  "It's
Government petrol I'm using, you know, and I'm
not due at Liverpool until eight to-night.  Do it on
my head, so to speak.  And you?"

"Just off to the station, old man," replied Sefton.
"Want to get home to-night."

"Southampton?  I doubt it, old bird.  You've
missed the express to King's Cross.  No, I'm not
to blame.  It had gone long before you tried to
commit hara-kiri under my car.  Look here; hop
in and I'll drop you at Manchester in plenty of
time to pick up the through train."

Sefton accepted the invitation with alacrity.
Being whisked through the air in a comfortable
car was infinitely to be preferred to being cooped
up in a railway-carriage after a tedious wait in a
draughty station.

The ninety odd miles to Halifax was covered in
two hours and a half, for, on the open road,
Farnworth let the car all out, only slowing down while
passing through the big industrial towns that lay
on his route.

"Now for a ripping stretch of country," exclaimed
Farnworth enthusiastically.  "Something to blow
the cobwebs away, don't you know.  I always take
this road in preference to the Hebden Bridge way.
It's steeper, but the car can do it hands down."

Up and up, with very little reduction of speed,
the high-powered car climbed.  Sefton, drowsy for
lack of sufficient sleep and from the effects of the
strong air, failed to share his companion's
enthusiasm.  Lulled by the rhythmic purr of the
motor-car, he was fast becoming oblivious to his
surroundings when Farnworth gave him a violent
shake with his disengaged hand.

"What's wrong?" enquired Sefton.

"Scrap," replied his chum laconically.  "Something
more than a dog-fight.  What?" he muttered
under his breath as he pulled up.

Twenty yards from the road was an overturned
car.  Close to it lay a khaki-clad figure, while
engaged in a desperate struggle were two pairs of
interlocked combatants.  Approaching them with
stealthy steps was a short, thickset, bullet-headed
man holding an automatic pistol.

This much Sefton took in with a glance as he
leapt from the car.  Fatigue and sleepiness had
vanished in an instant.  All he realized was that a
party of motorists was being molested by a gang of
armed roughs, and that was enough.

With Farnworth limping close at his heels,
Sefton ran to the rescue.  An encouraging shout
from his companion caused the armed ruffian to turn.

Brandishing his pistol, he shouted a warning to
the two new-comers to "clear out and mind their
own business".

Undeterred by the sight of the weapon, the two
subs bounded forward.  A couple of bullets whizzed
past Sefton's head, one of the pieces of nickel
chopping a slice out of the lobe of Farnworth's
left ear.

Before Hans could fire again, the deep report of
a heavy revolver rang out, followed by a bluish
puff of smoke from underneath the overturned car.

Clapping his hands to his side, the German spun
round three times and collapsed to the ground.

As he passed, Sefton kicked the fellow's pistol,
sending it flying a dozen yards.  If the Hun were
playing 'possum, the sub meant to take no
unnecessary risks.

In ten seconds the struggle was over.  A
powerful blow from Farnworth's clenched fist made
George's assailant relax his grip on the lad's throat
and fall like a log.

Leslie's antagonist, who was fast choking the
plucky lad into a state of insensibility, broke away,
and, with a yell of terror, fled for his life, hotly
pursued by Jack Sefton.  Realizing that he was
being outstripped, the miscreant made straight for
the lake and plunged in.

Vainly the sub waited for him to rise to the
surface.  Either the man's head had struck against
some hard substance at the bottom or else he had
become entangled in the weeds.

Greatly to Jack's surprise, he found that it was
his young brother who had put up such a game
struggle with his burly antagonist, and that Dick
Crosthwaite's father and brother were of the party.
Still greater was the sub's astonishment when he
heard a well-known voice exclaim,

"Bear a hand, Jack.  It's not at all comfortable here."

With assistance the admiral was extricated from
the wreckage, little the worse for his adventure.

"Hang it all, my boy," exclaimed Admiral
Sefton, "we were coming to look for you.  We
heard the *Calder* was overdue."

"Didn't you get my wire, sir?" asked Jack.  "I
telegraphed directly we got ashore."

"Considering I've been three days on the road,"
replied his father, "my postal address isn't of much
use.  Hulloa, Crosthwaite, what have you got?"

"Nothing much," declared the general.  "A
clean bullet-wound.  Thought I'd been plugged
through the chest.  The shock knocked me out.
By Jove!  That was a narrow squeak."

He held his cigar case up for inspection.  The
bullet had penetrated the lid, and had flattened
itself against the back, a bulge proving by how
little the missile had missed making a complete
perforation.

"The rascal has spoilt two of my choice cigars,"
announced Crosthwaite Senior wrathfully.  "What
was the object, I wonder?  By George, Sefton, I
see ourselves let in for a coroner's inquest."

While Jack and the admiral were attending to
George and Leslie, neither of whom showed any
signs of serious injury, Farnworth examined the
bodies of the three men.  Two were stone dead--silent
testimonies to the accuracy of the admiral's
aim.  The third was unconscious, the blow from
Farnworth's powerful fist having stunned him.  Of
the others, one had been drowned, while the
remaining member of the gang--the one wounded by
the admiral--was at that moment limping painfully
over the hills, and putting a safe distance between
him and the scene of his rash and foiled exploit.

"By Jove, old man," exclaimed Farnworth, in
the midst of his task of examining the contents of
the dead man's pockets.  "See what you make of this?"

He held up a sheet of soiled and creased paper,
covered with closely-written flourishing writing,
for Jack Sefton's inspection.  "German, by the
powers!" he added.

"Partly in cipher and partly in ordinary
writing," declared Sefton.  "These fellows are Huns,
right enough, but what is their object?"

Farnworth did not reply.  He was intently studying
the minute penmanship.  Suddenly he started
to his feet.

"The swine!" he ejaculated furiously.  "Look
here--these three words--all as plain as a pike-staff."

"Well, what does it mean?" asked the admiral,
his attention drawn to the discovery by Farnworth's
exclamation.

"A diplomatic mission is leaving a certain port.
By this time the vessel detailed to convoy the party
may have sailed.  The spies knew this: this paper
proves that.  Either they or their accomplices have
designs to interfere with the plan."

"A bold surmise on your part," remarked
Admiral Sefton.

"I hope I'm mistaken, sir," replied Farnworth.
"We'll have to be on the move at once."

"What's your plan, old man?" enquired Jack
as the party set to work to convey the wounded
general to the waiting car.

"Make for the nearest telegraph office," was the
prompt reply.

"And these?" enquired the admiral, indicating
with a comprehensive sweep of his hand the
overturned motor and the three motionless forms of
their former assailants.

"Can wait, sir," replied Farnworth.  "We'll
send the police and a break-down gang to clear up
the business.  All ready, Jack?"

Away glided the car, descending the curved road
at terrific speed.  Approaching the bottom of the
pass, another car was encountered going in the
opposite direction.  It contained the high
personage who probably owed his life to the blunder the
Germans had made in mistaking Crosthwaite's
party for his.  In complete ignorance, the
occupants of the two cars passed.  The Government
official was never to learn how close he had been
to a foul death by assassination on the desolate
Blackstone Edge.

Over the rough setts of Rochdale, Farnworth's
car tore, until the young naval officer slowed up to
pass through a dense crowd gathered round the
windows of a firm of newspaper proprietors, and
extending more than half-way across the street.

Instinctively the occupants of the car looked at
the bold letters scrawled upon a large sheet of paper.

"Good heavens!" ejaculated the admiral, hardly
able to believe his eyes; "we are too late!"




CHAPTER XIX--The Smack "Fidelity"
=================================

"Be a sport, Jack!" exclaimed Leslie Sefton coaxingly.

"And take a sort of busman's holiday, eh?"
rejoined the sub, regarding his young brother with
a tolerant smile.  "Well--I'll see."

"Thanks awfully," was Leslie's comment.
Experience had taught him that Jack's "I'll see"
invariably ended in acquiescence.

Two months had elapsed since the eventful
encounter on Blackstone Edge.  August was well
advanced, bringing with it a spell of gloriously
fine weather; and, since the young people must
needs have holidays, even in war-time, and the
Admiral felt in need of a rest after the strenuous
shooting-match on the bleak Pennine Hills, the
Sefton family had taken a furnished house
overlooking Poole Harbour.

Sub-lieutenant Sefton had been temporarily
appointed to the Portsmouth Naval Barracks,
pending another term of service afloat.  His fairly
frequent periods of week-end leave, he invariably
spent with his parents, since Poole was within easy
railway distance of the senior naval port.

Young Leslie was in his element.  Before he had
been at Poole more than three hours he had already
chummed up with the owners of several pleasure
craft.  But a few days of sailing in a landlocked
harbour soon whetted his appetite for a trip beyond
the bar, and for the present his wishes in that
direction were thwarted.  Owing to the war-time
conditions, no pleasure-boat or yacht was permitted to
leave the spacious inland cruising-ground.

Time after time, Leslie watched with yearning
eyes the brown-sailed fishing-fleet steal past the
patrol-boats guarding the entrance, and glide
seaward to the fishing-ground off the Dolphin Bank.
For the most part, the boats were manned by
grey-bearded stalwarts and young boys, worthy
descendants of Harry Page, Thompson, and other Poole
fishermen whose prowess against the French is still
remembered by the inhabitants of the Dorset
seaport.  Already the British navy had claimed almost
every able-bodied fisherman of fighting age, and
nobly the men had responded to the call, leaving
grandfathers and grandsons to work the boats in
the open waters of the English Channel.

At last Leslie found an opportunity.  Getting on
the right side of old "Garge" Cottenham, owner
and master of the five-ton smack *Fidelity*, he
prevailed upon that worthy to allow him to make an
all-night trip to the fishing-grounds.

Unfortunately the admiral did not see eye to eye
with his energetic son.  Even Leslie's declaration
that he would be assisting in a work of national
importance by helping to provide the nation's food
left him unmoved.  As a last resource the lad
appealed to Jack, who had just arrived upon the
scene for the week-end.

"Isn't the harbour good enough for him?" asked
Admiral Sefton.

"You don't get the lift of the open sea, you
know, Pater," replied the sub.  "Leslie's got the
old instinct, you see."

"S'pose so," admitted his parent.  "A couple
of centuries of sea life is bound to tell, eh?  All the
same, I don't like the idea of the boy knocking about
in a smack.  He'll get into a dozen scrapes, and
end up by tumbling overboard and getting mixed
up in the trawl.  Now if I were there to look after
him----"

The admiral paused.  Had old Garge Cottenham
extended the invitation to him, the bluff old
sea-dog could not have resisted the call of the
sea--e'en were it through the medium of a five-ton
smack.  Between the man who in the splendour
of a gold-laced uniform had directed the
movements of a fleet and the other who grasped the
tiller of a grubby fishing-boat existed a common
tie--that mysterious and overpowering freemasonry
of the sea.

On second thoughts, Admiral Sefton remembered
his comfortable bed and well-ordered repast,
comparing them with the discomforts of a night afloat
and relatively hard fare.

Here Jack stepped nobly into the breach.

"Perhaps the kid wouldn't object if I went with
him," he suggested.  "Not keen on it, you know,
but----"

And so it came to pass that when Leslie coaxed
his big brother the latter capitulated.

"But what if your fisherman pal declined to ship
me with him?" he added.

"No fear," replied Leslie.  "I'll make that all
right; only don't tell him you're an officer."

"Oh, for why?" enquired the sub.

"I don't know exactly," was his brother's reply.
"Somehow I fancy Old Garge doesn't like naval
officers."

Wherein Leslie was correct.  Years ago Skipper
Cottenham had fallen foul of the
lieutenant-in-charge of a revenue cutter, and the memory of
the meeting still rankled.

After lunch Leslie made his way to the quay,
returning in an hour's time with the information
that Old Garge didn't object (he was not over
anxious to avail himself of a supposed amateur's
offer of assistance), and that the *Fidelity* would cast
off at seven o'clock that evening.

Clad in an old pair of serge trousers and a
brown sweater, and carrying an oilskin coat that,
despite the maker's guarantee, stuck tenaciously
wherever it was folded, the sub accompanied
his wildly-excited brother to the steps, where
a boat was in readiness to convey them to the smack.

In the boat was a freckled, chubby-faced,
flaxen-haired youngster of about thirteen, whom Leslie
introduced to his brother as Tim, great-grandson
of the owner and master of the registered
fishing-boat *Fidelity*.

"Where's the *Fidelity* lying?" enquired the sub,
after the youngster had sculled the heavy boat for
nearly two hundred yards.

"Down Stakes," was the mysterious reply.
"Us'll see her in a minute or so, when us gets
round t'bend."

Working the long single oar vigorously, and
aided by the strong ebb tide, Tim quickly urged
the heavy boat along.

"There he be," he announced.  "Third in the
row from here."

Sefton looked in the direction indicated.  The
fishing-fleet was already making preparations for
a start.  Most of the boats had their mainsails set.
Two or three had already slipped moorings, and
were gliding down the main channel under the lee
of the wooded Brownsea Island.

With the practised eye of a true seaman, the sub
realized that, in spite of her sombre garb of grey
paint, mottled with tar marks, the *Fidelity* was
"all a boat".

With a sharp entry and fine run aft, noticeable
despite the squat stern and heavy transom, the
smack showed every promise of speed combined
with stiffness.  Built with a view of encountering
the short steep seas of Poole Bar, she was typical
of the weatherly boats that have justly earned a
splendid reputation for seaworthiness.

"Evenin'!" was Old Garge's greeting.  "Come
aboard.  Look alive, Tim, an' make fast the boat's
painter.  Then do 'ee cast off.  There's Bill
Moggridge an' Peter Wilson under way already.  Us
mustn't let 'em get across t' Bar ahead of the
*Fidelity*."

Quickly, as the result of much practice, young
Tim cast off the heavy mooring-chain from the
bitts, and trimmed the head-sails.  Heeling slightly
to the light south-westerly breeze the smack gathered
way, leaving hardly a ripple in her wake as she
glided almost noiselessly through the calm water.

The sub revelled in the movement.  Vividly it
recalled long-past days in the *Britannia's* cutters,
racing in the landlocked estuary of the Dart.
Since then opportunities for fore-and-aft sailing
had been few and far between.  Contrasted with the
terrific vibration of a swiftly moving destroyer, the
gentle movement was peaceful and soothing.

A short spell of close-hauled work, as the smack
tacked towards the entrance, was followed by a run,
full and by, down the buoyed channel to the bar
buoy.  From the heights above Studland a stiff
breeze swept down, causing the water to foam at
the *Fidelity's* sharp stem.

"That be good!" ejaculated Old Garge.  "Us
be overtakin' them," and he nodded in the
direction of the two boats that were still leading by
less than a cable's length.  "Wind'll drop afore
long, I's afraid."

"It will go down with the sun," said Sefton.
"But we'll get the first of the east-going tide
outside."

The skipper of the *Fidelity* stared at his guest.
Already he had come to the conclusion that the
tall bronzed young fellow was no mere landlubber.
The sub's deliberate pronunciation of the word
"tackle" during a previous conversation had told
him that.

"Patrol," announced the skipper laconically,
indicating a steam trawler as she rounded the
detached chalk pinnacle known as "Old Harry".
"She's there to keep Garmin submarines away,
you know.  Ever seen a Garmin submarine, mister?"

"Have you?" enquired Sefton, countering the
old fellow's curiosity.

"Only one, and 'er was no good to nobody,"
replied Old Garge.  "They sunk 'er away down
Christchurch Bay.  Seed the navy chaps a-getting
her up, only the patrol boat ordered me away.
That was away back last summer.  Since then they
submarines 'ave given this part a wide berth."

"I'd like to see one getting properly strafed,"
declared Leslie.  "What would you do, Jack, if
one showed its nose up just now?"

"Chuck it," ejaculated the sub good-humouredly.
"We're supposed to be on the way to the fishing-ground,
not chasing U boats.  Hallo!  There's
The Needles Light."

By this time the sun had set in a haze of vivid
crimson.  Against the dark grey of the eastern
sky, the coastwise lights of The Needles and
St. Catherine's were beginning to assert their presence
in the rapidly waning twilight.  Contrary to
expectation the breeze still held, although under the
shadow of Hengistbury Head, bearing three miles
to the nor'ard, a number of fishing-craft lay
completely becalmed.

"Evenin', Peter!" shouted Old Garge cordially,
as the *Fidelity* drew ahead of the hitherto leading
boat.  Peter waved his arm in reply.  His response
was not so cordial, seeing that his boat had been
outstripped, greatly to the glee of Leslie and young Tim.

For the next quarter of an hour all hands were
busily engaged in paying out the nets.  Then,
under triced-up mainsail, the smack floundered
slowly through the water, towing the length of
fishing-gear astern.

The first haul produced very indifferent results.
Leslie began to think that it was poor sport, since
the catch consisted of less than a dozen medium-sized
whiting and a couple of small bass.  Nor did
the second cast fare much better.

"'Tes this east'ly wind we've a-been havin' that's
done the mischief," explained the skipper of the
*Fidelity*.  "I thought when it veered we'd be in
luck.  Howsomever, we'll have another shot."

Again the nets were paid out, and the smack,
hampered with her tow, stood off in the direction
of the distant St. Catherine's Light.

"Mighty slow, isn't it?" confided Leslie to his
brother.  "Wish Old Garge would up nets and
make for home.  Sailing's all right, but this almost
bores me stiff."

"Patience!" rejoined Sefton.  "This is your
choice.  How would you care to go fishing for
months, blow high, blow low?  No matter whether
it be summer or winter, you've got to go on
fishing--fishing for a brute that will bite you pretty hard
at the first favourable opportunity."

"You mean submarines?" asked the lad.  "I
should like to see one.  It must be fine sport."

"Not on board this hooker, though," added the
sub.  "Give me something that can hit back."

Force of habit made the young officer glance to
windward.  He would not have been altogether
surprised had a pair of twin periscopes appeared
above the surface of the moonlit water.  After all,
he reflected, there wasn't much chance of that.
The fishing-ground was well out of the recognized
steamer tracks.  A U boat, especially in the
English Channel, where she ran an almost momentary
risk of destruction, would not waste time over the
shallow Dolphin Bank to look for insignificant
fishing-smacks.  Still, Hun submarines did erratic
things sometimes.

Then the sub laughed at his fancies.  The
possibility was so remote that he ridiculed the
suggestion.

Meanwhile Old Garge had disappeared under
the half-deck.  A wreath of smoke from the dilapidated
iron chimney, and the banging of several iron
utensils, announced the fact that he was preparing
some sort of repast.  Tim, mechanically sawing
the tiller to and fro, kept the smack on her course.

The *Fidelity* was now well to the east'ard of the
rest of the fleet.  A couple of miles separated her
from the nearmost of the brown-sailed boats, whose
dark canvas showed up distinctly in the slanting
rays of the moon.

"We're giving them the slip, aren't we?" enquired
Leslie, indicating the still busily engaged smacks.

Tim glanced over his shoulder.

"Granfer," he called out; "we'm a long way
down t' east'ard.  Shall us up nets?"

"No; you just carry on," replied Old Garge, his
voice muffled in the confined space.  "I'll be with
you in a minute.  I'm fair busy just now."

Another half-hour passed, but the skipper still
remained out of sight.  The wind had now dropped,
and the smack, with her main-sheet slacked right
off, floundered heavily, dipping her boom-end at
every roll.  Already the day was breaking beyond
the chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight.  Momentarily,
the search-lights from The Needles Channel
batteries were growing fainter in the grey dawn.

"Isn't it grand!" exclaimed Leslie, inspired by
the sight of daybreak at sea.

The sub merely shrugged his shoulders.  Untold
spells of duty as officer of the watch had made him
regard the spectacle with complete indifference.

But the next instant Jack Sefton's lassitude fell
from him like a discarded mask, for, at less than
a hundred yards on the *Fidelity's* port quarter,
appeared the pole-like periscopes of a submarine.




CHAPTER XX--Captured
====================

For a few seconds the optics of the submerged
craft remained trained upon the isolated smack.
Although the submarine was forging slowly ahead,
the periscopes rose no higher out of the water.
Evidently those in charge of the vessel were not
anxious to rise to the surface until they had
satisfied themselves that it was fairly safe to do so.

His attention attracted by his brother's fixed
gaze, Leslie sprang to his feet and grasped the
weather shrouds.

"What's that, Jack?" he asked.

"What you wanted to see--a submarine."

"One of ours?"

"Hope so," replied the sub laconically; but he
had great misgivings on that score.  Had it been
a British submarine making for Portsmouth, she
would almost certainly be running on the surface,
in order to make her number before approaching
the heavily-defended Needles channel.

Wildly excited, Tim forgot that he was steering
and, putting the helm down, allowed the smack to
gybe "all standing".  The thud of the heavy boom
as it swung across and brought up with a violent
jerk, had the effect of making Old Garge emerge
from the cuddy in a state of nautical profanity.

"What be you up to, you young lubber?" he shouted.

"Submarine, granfer," replied his youthful relative.

"No excuse for gybing," continued the skipper.
"Do you mind what you are up to.  Where be she?"

He shaded his eyes, expecting to see one of the
British "C" or "E" class running awash.
Instead, he saw only the tips of the periscopes.

"Drat it!" he ejaculated.  "'Tain't for no good.
Anyways, we're too small for her to trouble about we."

Apparently his conjectures were correct, for, with
a feather of white foam, and a sullen swirl well in
the wake of the periscope, the submarine
disappeared wholly from sight.

"'Er's afeard of fouling our nets," declared Old
Garge.  "Now, if we gives the patrol-boat notice,
an' that submarine is done for, there's fifty pun' at
least for me.  A matter of a couple o' months back
my friend Peter----"

But what happened to Peter was a story that Jack
Sefton was not permitted to hear, for with a quick,
unhesitating motion the submarine reappeared at
less than three cables' lengths ahead of the smack.
Shaking herself clear of the water, she displayed
the unmistakable outlines of a German *unterseeboot*,
although no number was visible on her
grey conning-tower.

With remarkable celerity an officer and half a
dozen seamen appeared from below, while at the
same time a quick-firer was raised from its
"housing", for'ard of the conning-tower, and trained
upon the luckless *Fidelity*.

Steadily the U boat approached within hailing
distance, then, making a half-circle, slowed down
on a parallel course to that of the smack.

"Fishing-boat ahoy!" shouted the German
officer.  "Cut adrift your nets and run alongside,
or I'll have to sink you."

Old Garge gave a gasp of astonishment and
looked enquiringly at Jack Sefton.

"Them nets cost a sight o' money," he exclaimed
ruefully.  "Now if I had a gun----"

"Hurry, there!" came the stern mandate from the U boat.

"You'll have to obey, I fancy," said the sub.
"There's no escape.  Perhaps they'll let you off,
as the smack is only a very small one.  If you give
them any lip they'll cut up rough."

Deliberately Old Garge cut the trailing line of
nets, bent the outward part to a life-buoy and cast
it overboard.  As he had remarked, nets were
expensive affairs, and he was not going to cut them
adrift without a means of recovering the gear
should the Huns let him off lightly.

"Back your head-sails, Tim!" ordered the
skipper, at the same time putting the helm hard
down and allowing the *Fidelity* to come up motionless
into the wind, within a couple of yards of the
bulging side of the U boat.

"Throw us a line!" was the peremptory greeting.

Agilely a fair-haired unter-leutnant boarded the
smack, followed by three of his men.  Giving a
cursory glance at the fish-well, he said something
in German to one of the seamen.  In less than
a minute the night's haul had been transferred to
the captor.

"Low-down robbers!" muttered Old Garge
under his breath, but the unter-leutnant caught the
imprecation.

"Have a care," he said sternly, "or we sink
your boat.  What these men?  You carry a large
crew for a little ship, Captain."

"They are my men," declared Old Garge loyally.

"Perhaps," drawled the German, then, suddenly
turning, he strode up to Sefton and his brother.

"Hold your hand out!" he ordered.

Leslie sniggered.  In his opinion the uniformed
Hun ought to have added the words "Naughty
boy".  The lad was enjoying the novel experience.
His one regret was that George Crosthwaite was
not present to share in the adventure.

Critically the unter-leutnant examined Jack's
extended hand.  In spite of the fact that it was
discoloured with tar, and reeked of fish, the sub's
hand showed that it belonged to a person not of
the ordinary working class.  The long, tapering
fingers, manicured nails, and absence of horny
protuberances on the palm "gave him away".

"What is your name?" demanded the German.

"Smith," replied Sefton promptly.

Again the irritating, dubious, and speculative
"Per-haps".  The sub realized that he was in a
tight corner.

"What this wound--how caused?" enquired the
unter-leutnant, indicating the white scar on the
young officer's wrist--the legacy of the affair off
Jutland.  "Ach!  Shell wound, hein?  You are of
military age.  Stand aside."

In spite of the brown jersey and the soiled serge
trousers, the keen-witted Hun had come to the
correct conclusion, that the tall, bronzed man was
not a genuine smack hand.  Not satisfied with the
self-styled Smith's replies, he decided to interrogate
his companion.

"Your name?" he demanded of Leslie, with a
fierceness that effectually quenched all further
inclination on the part of the youth to snigger.

"Smith, too," replied Leslie.  "He's my brother."

Again a display of palmistry.  Leslie's hands,
though grubby, were also unmistakably unused
to rough work.

"How old?"

"Fifteen?"

"You lie."

"On my word of honour," declared Leslie.

"No matter," rejoined the unter-leutnant.  "You
old enough to fight.  Suppose----"

A hail came from the U boat.  Herr Kapitan
had mounted the platform in the wake of the
conning-tower and was calling attention to the
mist that was bearing down in detached patches.
Already the rest of the fishing-boats were lost to sight.

"You go on board there," continued the German
unter-leutnant, indicating the submarine.  Then,
turning to Old Garge, he added:

"We let you go.  Too much trouble to sink
your little fischer-boat, and you have no skiff.
Stop here one hour.  If you move or make signal,
then we return and blow you to pieces.  You onderstan'?"

Without condescending to notice Tim, who was
watching the course of events with wide-open eyes,
the unter-leutnant signalled to the two Seftons to
board the submarine.  Then, followed by his men,
the Hun regained his own craft.

A minute later, with Jack and Leslie prisoners of
war, the U boat slid quietly beneath the surface.

Old Garge obeyed instructions until the tips of
the periscopes vanished.  Then he began to gather
in the mainsheet.

"Trim your heads'ls, Tim," he ordered.  "Us'll
be off as hard as we can."

"How about the nets, grandfer?" asked Tim.

"Can bide," declared the old man as the *Fidelity*,
gathering way, sped to give the alarm that another
U boat had been active in the Channel.

Three-quarters of an hour later, the smack ran
alongside one of the patrol-boats operating in
Christchurch Bay, and reported the incident.
Quickly the news was wirelessed, and a regular
fleet of swift motor-boats was soon upon the scene,
while overhead a couple of sea-planes hovered,
in the hope of detecting the shadow of the U boat
against the white sandy bottom.

But in vain.  The unter-leutnant's threat that
he purposed remaining in the vicinity for an hour
was a mere piece of bluff.  Without loss of time,
the submarine was running at her maximum
submerged speed in a south-westerly direction, intent
upon putting as great a distance as possible
between her and the hornets whose activities had
already taken a heavy toll from these modern
pirates of the Black Cross Ensign.

U99 was one of the most recent type of *unterseebooten*.
Possessing a great radius of action, she
combined the roles of mine-layer and submerged
torpedo-craft.  She was one of nine detailed for
operations in the English Channel, and, since the
passage through the Straits of Dover had long been
regarded as "unhealthy" by the German Admiralty,
the flotilla had been ordered to proceed and return
via the Faroe Isles and the west coast of Ireland.

Although the U99 had disposed of her cargo
of mines without mishap--several of the German
submarines having been "hoist with their own
petards"--her efforts had not met with marked
success.  Beyond torpedoing a tramp, and sinking
another by gun-fire, she had failed to carry out the
work of frightfulness that had been expected of her.
Having exhausted her stock of torpedoes, and
making only one effective hit, she was on her way home.

After three hours of terrible suspense, when she
found herself enmeshed in a net somewhere off the
back of the Wight--a predicament from which she
freed herself by means of the specially-devised
wire-cutters on her bows--U99 was forced to come up
for a breather early in the morning.  Provisions
were running short, and the sight of the solitary
fishing-smack tempted her commander to investigate,
with the result that Sub-lieutenant Sefton and
his brother found themselves in the unenviable
position of prisoners in the hands of the enemy.
More, they were cooped up in a wretched U boat,
faced with the possibility of being hunted by their
fellow-countrymen and consigned to Davy Jones
in the undesirable company of a crew of piratical Huns.

No wonder that Jack felt like kicking himself for
having embarked upon the ill-starred voyage in the
smack *Fidelity*.

"Yes, by Jove!" he muttered.  "Here's a pretty
kettle of fish--and the lid on with a vengeance."




CHAPTER XXI--U99
================

During the first hour of their captivity Jack Sefton
and his brother were left alone, locked in a narrow,
ill-lighted compartment in the after part of the
submarine.  Overhead they could hear the ceaseless
clank of the steering-gear, while the crowded space
within the hull echoed to the noisy clatter of the
propelling machinery.

Outwardly calm, the sub was raging furiously.
Yielding to his sense of discretion, and realizing
the importance of reassuring his young brother, he
made a brave show at keeping up his spirits.  On
several occasions he had found himself in a tight
corner, but now there was the humiliation of being
captured in a most ignominious fashion, without
being able to raise a hand in self-defence.

"Upon my word!" he remarked.  "Really,
Leslie, you will have something to remember.
Experiences like this don't fall to the lot of many
youngsters, you know."

"More exciting than that scrap on Blackstone,"
rejoined Leslie.  "Even George would have to
admit that.  Makes a fellow feel quite bucked.  But
what do they intend doing with us, I wonder?"

"Events will prove that," replied the sub gravely.
"Recollect that we have to conceal our identity as
much as possible.  These chaps must not be allowed
to find out that I am a naval officer.  Hark!"

A rasping sound, as the bolt securing the door
was shot back, interrupted the conversation before
Sefton had time to mature his immediate plans.
The metal panel slid open and a petty officer
appeared and spoke rapidly in German.

Drowned by the noise of the machinery, the words
were inaudible, but by the man's gestures the
prisoners clearly understood that they had to follow
him.  Along a narrow, steel-enclosed passage, then
through a maze of intricate machinery, the sub and
his brother were conducted, until they found
themselves in a small cabin almost immediately underneath
the grating that formed the floor of the raised
conning-tower.

"You will at once take off your clothes," ordered
the petty officer.

At this unexpected command the brothers looked
at each other in surprise.  The order could not be
ignored, despite its apparent inconsequence.
However unwilling to submit to the indignity, the
prisoners obeyed promptly.

Under the stern glare of the German petty officer,
Jack Sefton stripped off his brown jersey, shirt, and
singlet.

"Rough luck!" he muttered.  "Now these
brutes will tumble to it; my name is marked on
each of these garments."

Which was exactly what the Huns were intent
upon finding out, for, giving a keen glance at the
tell-tale lettering, the petty officer without waiting
for the rest of the disrobing process made his way aft.

Sefton was not long left in doubt, for presently
an officer in uniform corresponding to that of a
lieutenant-commander entered the cabin.

"So!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as he thumbed
the pages of a British Navy List.  "We fine bag
have made.  'Sefton, John B. G.'  That not the
same as Smith, hein?"

The sub vouchsafed no remark.  He felt horribly
humiliated by his position and by the easy manner
in which he had been bowled out.  Also, he realized
that now the chances of the prisoners being set on
board a passing vessel had been entirely knocked
on the head.

"We take you back to Zhermany," continued
the kapitan of the submarine.  "Day after
to-morrow we land you at Wilhelmshaven at exactly
nine o'clock."

The day after to-morrow--at nine o'clock.  That
would be Monday, and at that hour Sefton was due
for "divisions" at Portsmouth Naval Barracks.
The irony of his position ate into his soul.

"If not, you will be a corpse at the bottom of the
sea," rejoined the German pointedly.  "Now get
your clothes on, and take good care to yourselves
behave."

The kapitan quitted the cabin, leaving Sefton and
his brother to resume their garments.  This they
did in silence, for Leslie had noticed his brother's
despondency and chagrin.

Except for the periods when they were ordered
forward for meals, the prisoners were left severely
alone.  Of the passing of time they had but a
remote idea, since the sub had wisely left his watch
ashore before proceeding on the ill-starred trip in
the *Fidelity*.  Certain it was that, for nearly twelve
hours, U99 remained submerged, running on her
electric power.

Then she rose to the surface.  The petrol engines
were coupled up, and at an increased speed the
submarine proceeded, in what direction Sefton had
no idea.  Without means of consulting a compass,
and confined below, he was in total ignorance of the
vessel's course.

At length, dead-tired, for neither of the twain had
slept the previous night, Jack and Leslie threw
themselves down on the floor.  There was no need
for bedding.  The heat of the confined space was
too oppressive for that.  For a long while the sub
tossed uneasily on his hard couch, finally dropping
off into a fitful slumber.

He was awakened by a seaman shaking him
vigorously.  For some moments he was unable to
realize his surroundings.  Sleeping in the hot and
almost fetid air had benumbed his brain.  He felt
fuddled, his eyes seemed strained and dim, his
throat burned painfully.

"On deck for exercise," ordered the man,
speaking in German.

Sefton staggered to his feet, feeling stiff and
cramped in his limbs.  Leslie was still asleep, and
when disturbed took even longer than his brother
to be fully aroused.

"By Jove," thought the sub, "if the crew are
all like this, early morn is the time to catch them
napping!  Well, here goes."

The two captives followed their jailer through an
oval-shaped hatchway, gaining the deck by means
of a steel ladder.

Lounging on the long, narrow platform were
more than a dozen men, some stretched upon their
backs, others lying with their heads pillowed upon
their arms, but in every case one hand was
outstretched to grasp the stanchions.  The precaution
was necessary, for the boat was floundering heavily
in the long, sullen rollers.

Instinctively Sefton gave a glance in the direction
of the sun.  It was now broad daylight.  The orb
of day, high in the heavens, betokened the fact that
it was approaching the hour of noon.  By the
direction of the shadows cast upon the deck, it was now
apparent that the U boat's course was a little east
of north.  Away on the starboard hand was a
seemingly interminable range of frowning cliffs, the
nearmost being but two or three miles distant.
They were the rock-bound shores of Donegal.

Holding Leslie tightly by the arm, for the lad
was not accustomed to the Atlantic swell, Sefton
marched him up and down the deck between the
after end of the conning-tower and the stern.
Although the limited promenade was still further
curtailed by the prone bodies of the crew, the latter
paid no attention to the two prisoners.

On the platform surrounding the conning-tower
was the unter-leutnant who had ordered their
arrest.  Scanning the horizon with his binoculars,
he, too, seemed indifferent to the presence of the
two Englishmen.  With him, and stationed at a
small wheel in the wake of a binnacle, was a
quartermaster.  The conning-tower hatchway was
closed, owing possibly to the spray that literally
swept the fore part of the submarine, and was flung
high over the domed top of the "brain of the ship".

"Where are we now?" asked Leslie.

"Off the Irish coast," replied his brother.

"Wish one of our destroyers would put in an
appearance," remarked Leslie wistfully.

The sub made no audible reply.  His views upon
the matter, based upon actual experience, told him
pretty plainly that the captain of a British war-ship
would not be likely to ascertain whether there were
compatriots on board the craft he purposed to
destroy.  Also, there had been fully authenticated
cases of the Huns locking the prisoners down
below before they abandoned the sinking ship.
Sefton did not mind running legitimate risks in
action, but he had a strong objection to being
"done in" by British guns.

His reveries were interrupted by a shrill whistle
from the conning-tower.  Instantly the somnolent
men were roused into activity.  In less than thirty
seconds Sefton and his brother were tumbled below,
the decks were cleared, and the hatches closed.

By the inclination of the floor of the compartment
that served as a cell Sefton realized that the
U boat was diving.  Almost at the same time there
was a muffled detonation as a 12-pounder shell,
fired from a destroyer at a distance of 7500 yards,
exploded immediately above the spot where the
submarine had disappeared.

"Good heavens, she holed!" ejaculated the sub,
as the U boat quivered and dipped to an alarming
angle.  Momentarily he expected to hear, above
the rattle of the machinery, the irresistible inrush
of water and the shrieks of the doomed crew.

But in this he was mistaken.  The nearness of
the explosion of the shell had urged upon the
submarine's kapitan the necessity for haste.  Thrusting
the diving-planes hard down, he caused the U boat
to dive with unusual abruptness, never bringing
the vessel upon an even keel until she had
descended to a depth of twelve fathoms.

The rest of the day was passed in utter monotony
as far as the prisoners were concerned.  Although
it was two hours before the U boat dared to expose
the tips of her periscopes above the surface, the
greater part of the day was spent in running submerged.

Towards evening U99 ascended, and, altering
course, stood in pursuit of a small tramp.  After
a short chase, for the former had the advantage of
15 knots in speed, the submarine approached
sufficiently near to be able to fire a shot close to her
quarry.

Almost immediately the tramp slowed down
and hoisted American colours.  It did not take
U99 long to range up alongside, and the unterleutnant
and half a dozen seamen proceeded on board.

The prize was a Yankee, bound from Boston to
Liverpool with a cargo of warlike stores.
According to arrangements, she should have been met
and escorted by a patrol vessel; but, although the
latter was hourly expected, something had occurred
to delay her.

"We'll have to sink you," declared the German officer.

The "old man"--a typical New Englander--shrugged
his shoulders.

"Wal, I reckon yer can," he replied coolly.

"You don't seem concerned by the fact."

"Not I, stranger.  This hyer ship an' cargo is
jest insured up to the hilt in 'The Narragut Marine
Assurance Company'.  An' since the bulk of the
shareholders are Huns--wal, I guess it's 'nuff said."

"Ach!  Then I suppose I must let you go,"
exclaimed the baffled German officer.  "If you fall
in with any British war-vessels you might tell them
that we have two Englishmen on board."

"Maybe you'd care to let us give 'em a passage?"
hazarded the Boston skipper.

"If that had been our intention we should have
done so without asking a favour," rejoined the
unter-leutnant.

"Perhaps you would care to examine the ship's
papers?" enquired the master.  His keen eyes had
detected a small, swiftly moving object on the
horizon--the expected patrol boat.  Cap'n Hiram
Goslow, although a tough Republican, was quite
in sympathy with the Allies.  On previous voyages
he had fallen foul of the Huns, and the treatment
he had received still rankled.  "Maybe you aren't
quite satisfied about the 'Narragut Marine Assurance
Company' stunt?"

For the next half-minute the fate of U99 with
all on board trembled in the balance.  The
unterleutnant, only too pleased to have the opportunity
of finding a flaw in Captain Goslow's statement,
was about to accept the invitation, when a warning
shout from the kapitan of the U boat brought the
boarding-party scrambling on board with the utmost
alacrity.

To the accompaniment of a chorus of jeers and
laughter from the American crew, the submarine
submerged and was lost to sight.

Although Jack Sefton and his brother were in
ignorance of the precise nature of the meeting with
the tramp and the imperturbable Captain Goslow,
they knew by the unwonted noises and the shutting-down
of the motors that something had transpired.
The sudden closing of the hatchways, and the
hasty dive taken, told the sub that once again the
ceaseless vigilance of the British navy had been
responsible for a bad quarter of an hour for the Germans.

The kapitan's boast to the effect that his prisoners
would be landed at Wilhelmshaven at nine o'clock
was an empty one.  Wildly exciting moments, when
the U boat found herself foul of a maze of steel nets,
delayed her progress, until at length U99 arrived
at a position forty-five miles N.N.W. of Heligoland.

Here a wireless message was received, the
purport of which was not hailed with any degree of
enthusiasm by the weary and almost exhausted
crew.  They were on the point of completing a
fortnight's cruise of strenuous discomfort, physical
exertion, and mental strain.  Now, instead of
proceeding to Wilhelmshaven for a period of recuperation,
they were ordered to make for a certain
rendezvous and await the submarine depot-ship *Kondor*.

Officers and crew knew what this meant.  Heavy
losses amongst the German *unterseebooten* flotillas
had necessitated the U99 being pressed into an
extension of present service.  She was to replenish
stores and torpedoes, and to be attached to the
submarine flotilla operating with the High Seas Fleet.
Evidently another big movement was contemplated
in the North Sea.

Something had to be done to bolster up the
rapidly crumbling tissue of lies by which the
German Admiralty had gulled the Teutonic world.
Never in the history of naval warfare had a
victorious fleet been compelled to remain inactive in
its home ports beyond the period necessary for
revictualling, replenishing of warlike stores, and
making defects good.  Nine weeks or more had
elapsed since the glorious victory off Jutland, and
still the Hun fleet clung tenaciously to its
moorings.  Even the fat-headed burghers who frequented
the *bier-gartens* of Berlin began to realize that the
crushing defeat of the British in the North Sea had
not resulted in any increase of provisions or in the
abolition of the hated food tickets.

There was a fly in the ointment.  Steps had to
be taken to counteract its baneful influence.

Almost in desperation, several German Dreadnoughts,
accompanied by light cruisers and
destroyers, emerged from the Heligoland Bight.
Amongst them were the *Westfalen* and *Nassau*,
sister ships, whose scars received in the Jutland
fight had been hurriedly patched up in the
Wilhelmshaven dockyards.  Escorted by several
Zeppelins, the Hun fleet steamed westward--not to give
battle, but to make an attempt to copy Beatty's
incomparable strategy.

Night was falling when U99 made fast alongside
the *Kondor*.  She was not alone.  In the vicinity
were a dozen or more *unterseebooten* of a similar
type, awaiting wireless orders from the giant
airship that was scouting fifty miles or so in the
direction of the shores of Great Britain.

"Up on deck!" ordered the petty officer in
whose particular charge the two Seftons had been placed.

The sub and his brother obeyed promptly.  Had
they lingered, their movements would have been
accelerated by a kick from the Hun's heavy sea-boot.

The transformation from the artificially-lighted
compartment to the rapidly gathering night made
it impossible for Sefton to take in his surroundings
until his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.  At
first he was under the impression that the
submarine was berthed in harbour, until he discerned
the towering outlines of the sea-going depot-ship
and the absence of wharves and buildings.

Far away to the eastward the horizon was streaked
with the rapidly-moving search-lights of a large
fleet.  The skyward-directed rays were a direct
challenge to Beatty's squadrons.  In unlike
conditions to those of the Jutland battle, the Huns
made no attempt to steal off under cover of
darkness.  They had a set purpose in exposing their
position to the British fleet.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Sefton.  "The Huns are
out again.  What's the game this time?"

He glanced westward, half expecting to see the
misty outlines of the Grand Fleet silhouetted against
the last faint streak of crimson on the horizon, but
the sky-line was unbroken.

"Hurry, pigs of Englishmen!" ordered the
German petty officer, indicating a "Jacob's ladder"
that hung from the side of the *Kondor*.  "We have
had enough of you.  Soon you will see----"  He
stopped abruptly, fearing that his words might be
overheard by the grim kapitan of the submarine.

Agilely Leslie ascended the swaying rope-ladder,
the sub following close behind in case the
inexperienced lad should lose his hold.  But young
Sefton acquitted himself wonderfully.  The Huns
had no chance of a laugh at his expense.

Contrary to their expectations, the two prisoners
were not conducted below.  With an armed
seaman standing behind them they were stationed on
the raised poop, from whence they could see as
much of the operations as the feeble light permitted.

Promptly hoses were coupled up, pumping
volumes of petrol into U99's tanks.  Fully charged
accumulators were hoisted out and lowered down
the submarine's after hatchway, while the for'ard
hatch was opened to receive a dozen large
torpedoes closely approaching the British 21-inch
weapons.

At midnight a wireless operator handed the
kapitan of the *Kondor* a message, the text of which
caused the officer to issue a string of orders.
Quickly the hawsers securing the submarine to the
depot-ship were cast off, and U99, forging slowly
ahead, picked up her station in line with the rest
of the flotilla.  Then, at a given signal, the
submarines proceeded in a north-westerly direction,
while the *Kondor* steamed toward the invisible
German battleships.

At this stage of the proceedings, Sefton and his
brother were ordered below, and placed in a cell on
the orlop deck, twelve feet or more below the
waterline.  In utter darkness, for even the luxury of a
single light was denied them, they sat, listening to
the plash of the waves against the side, until sleep
came as a welcome relief to the strain of the day.

Several times the sub awoke with a start.  A
nightmare gripped him.  Normally strong nerved,
the cramped and dark cell, and the almost certain
fate that awaited him should the *Kondor* be sunk,
filled him with vague terrors.  In vain he tried to
rally himself.  The ordeal of the shell-swept bridge
of the *Calder* seemed as naught compared with the
gruesome atmosphere of the below-water-line prison.

The hours wore on, but the unexpected torpedo
attack was not forthcoming.  No thunder of guns
broke the almost uncanny silence.  No longer the
waves dashed themselves against the side plating
of the hull.  Only a sullen, rolling motion and the
faint tremor of the twin propeller shafting betokened
the fact that the vessel was still under way.




CHAPTER XXII--The British Submarines at Work
============================================

A succession of long-drawn hoarse cheering
aroused both Seftons from their light sleep.  Leslie's
outstretched hands came in contact with his brother's
face, for, in the utter darkness, only the senses of
touch and speech made the twain aware of each
other's presence.

"What's that noise, Jack?"

"Only the crew getting excited about something,"
replied the sub inconsequently.  At the
same time, he felt pretty certain that something in
the nature of a successful naval engagement had
been responsible for the outburst of noisy
enthusiasm on the part of the German crew.

He was not left long in doubt, for the door of the
cell was thrown open and a seaman bearing a
lantern ordered the prisoners to follow him.

Arriving on the upper deck, the sub discovered
that the *Kondor* had undergone a transformation.
Everything that denoted her part as a fleet auxiliary
had disappeared.  Aft she flew Swedish colours,
and a distinctive band encircled her wall sides, with
the words: "Gefle--Sverige" conspicuously
displayed.  Most of the crew had discarded their
German uniform, and were rigged out in the
cosmopolitan gear usually favoured by merchant seamen.

The crew had ceased cheering, but by their
bearing it was quite evident that they were still
labouring under the excitement of good news.

Pointing to a notice pinned to a board on the
main hatchway, around which several men still
lingered, the seaman, who had been told off to
guard the prisoners, indicated that his charges
should acquaint themselves with the information.

"What's it all about, Jack?" asked Leslie.

The message was the copy of a wireless report to
the effect that German submarines had been
successful in torpedoing two British cruisers of the
"Chatham" class.

"Do you think it's true?" asked young Sefton
anxiously, when the sub had translated the report.

"It may be a case of exaggeration," was the
reply.  "Of course, it is possible.  At any rate,
don't let these fellows see we are down-hearted.
Keep a stiff upper lip, old sport."

Turning their backs upon the distasteful notice-board,
the two prisoners strolled to the side, their
guard following but making no attempt to prevent them.

The *Kondor* was not alone.  About two miles on
the starboard hand, and steaming rapidly, were the
two Dreadnoughts that Sefton had noticed on the
previous day.  Behind were three light cruisers,
while, still farther astern, six sea-going
torpedo-boats were tearing along in that close formation
beloved of German torpedo-flotilla officers.

As the flagship passed, she threw out a signal to
the disguised *Kondor*, which was quickly acknowledged.
At the relative rates of speed, it was certain
that the battleships were overhauling the pseudo
*Gefle* hand over fist.

Sub-lieutenant Sefton was witnessing part of
the strategy of the German High Seas Fleet.  It
had ventured out with the express intention of
luring Beatty's squadron in pursuit, knowing that
the gallant Beatty would not decline the challenge.
But, with admirable discretion, the British admiral
made no effort to send the swift battle-cruisers in
pursuit, merely contenting himself by ordering the
light cruisers and destroyer flotillas to keep in touch
with the retreating Huns.

There were risks of mines and torpedoes, but
these were unavoidable.  By keeping well out of
the wake of the German ships, the danger of
bumping over a hastily dropped mine was obviated,
while a quick use of the helm would enable the
swift cruisers to minimize the chances of successful
submarine attack.

In the early hours, the British light-cruisers and
destroyers encountered the *unterseebooten*
purposely detailed by von Hipper to intercept the
pursuing vessels.  Three, at least, of the German
submarines were sent to the bottom by gun-fire or
by use of the ram; but, unfortunately, the
*Falmouth* and *Nottingham* fell victims to torpedo
attack.

Even as Sefton was watching the retreating
warships, a column of water was thrown high in the air
close to the port quarter of the German Dreadnought
*Westfalen*.  Before the muffled roar of the
explosion was borne to his ears, the sub saw the
huge battleship reel under the terrific blow.

Regardless of the consequences, he cheered
lustily; but, thrown into a state of consternation by
the magnitude of the disaster to one of their capital
ships, the crew of the *Kondor* made no attempt to
hurl the rash Englishman to the deck.

Spellbound, they watched the throes of the
stricken Dreadnought, to whose assistance the six
German destroyers were making at full speed.  As
for the rest of the German battleships and cruisers,
they steamed off as hard as they could, lest a like
fate should befall them.

The *Kondor* slowed down and stood by, making
no effort to close to the aid of the torpedoed ship,
while two destroyers circled aimlessly in a vain
search for the daring British submarine.

Then, very slowly, under her own steam, the
*Westfalen*, with a heavy list, crawled toward the
distant German shore, the four destroyers in her
wake ready to rush alongside, and rescue the
battleship's crew, should the vessel founder.

"Think they'll get her back to port?" Leslie
asked excitedly.

"'Fraid so," replied his brother.  "She shows
no signs of an increasing list.  A lot depends upon
the condition of her bulkheads.  When the
*Marlborough*----"

Before the sub could complete the sentence,
another cloud of smoke and water shot up
alongside the damaged battleship.  Lurching heavily,
this time to starboard, the *Westfalen* was hidden
from sight by a dense volume of steam and smoke
from her engine-rooms.

The attacking submarine had evidently meant to
see the job done properly.  Mindful of the risk of
being sent to the bottom by the attendant German
destroyers, the British craft had stealthily exposed
her periscope for a brief instant, yet sufficient for
her to send a deadly torpedo on its errand of
destruction.

By this time the crew of the *Kondor* had come to
the conclusion that their prisoners had seen much
more than was desirable.  Peremptorily Jack and
Leslie were ordered below.  The latter, unable to
restrain his delight, pointed mockingly at the
boastful writing on the notice-board, receiving a
brutal kick on his shins for his temerity.

"I don't mind, Jack," remarked Leslie, when, left
alone by their captors, the sub examined the angry
abrasion on his brother's leg.  "I'd let them give
me another hack without a murmur if I could see
another German battleship go the same way home."

After a long interval, a meal consisting of very
dry tinned meat and hunks of black bread was
provided for the famished prisoners, the unpalatable
food being washed down with a pannikin of warm
and insipid water.

The unappetizing repast over, the two prisoners
were again allowed on deck.  By this time there
were no signs either of the stricken battleship or
her attendant destroyers.  The *Kondor*, alone on
the wide North Sea, was steaming at about 12 knots
on an easterly course.  The rest of the crew had by
now discarded their German uniforms.  There was
nothing to denote that the vessel had ever sailed
under the Black Cross Ensign of the Imperial German Navy.

Suddenly, and right in the frothing wake of the
*Kondor*, appeared two pole-like objects--the
periscopes of a submarine.  Then, without the hesitancy
generally displayed by *unterseebooten* when about
to attack a merchantman, a British submarine of the
"E" class shook her conning-tower and deck clear
of the water.  Her hatches were flung open, and a
number of duffel-clad seamen appeared.  Quickly
a light signalling-mast was set up, from which two
flags fluttered in the breeze.

There was no mistaking the meaning of that
yellow square flag with the black ball, hoisted above
a triangular blue pennant with a white spot.  As
plainly as if a shot had been fired across the
*Kondor's* bows, the signal "ID" told her to "stop
instantly or I will fire into you".  Besides, it saved
ammunition, and the lieutenant-commander of the
submarine did not consider the prize worth powder
and shot.

But the German skipper was not a man to own
that the game was up without making an effort to
save himself and his ship.  A stumbling-block in
his way was Jack Sefton and his brother.

At a sign four burly Huns threw themselves upon
the prisoners.  For a full minute the sub resisted
stoutly, while Leslie put up a tough struggle against
odds.  Others of the crew came to their compatriots'
aid, and, still struggling, the two captives were taken
below and locked in the cell in the for'ard hold.




CHAPTER XXIII--And Last
=======================

"There's a bit of a dust-up on board, sir," reported
Sub-lieutenant Devereux of Submarine E--, as the
British craft steadily overhauled the *Kondor*, whose
engines had already been stopped in response to the
peremptory signal.  "Fellows scrapping like billy-ho.
I can just see their heads at intervals above
the taffrail."

"They can scrap as much as they like while they
have the chance," remarked Lieutenant-Commander
Huxtable grimly.  "You know your instructions,
Mr. Devereux?  Any rumpus, then signal us, and
we'll give them our last torpedo."

A canvas collapsible boat had been brought up
from below, and in this the boarding-officer and
five seamen, all armed, took their places.  Both the
*Kondor* and the submarine were almost without way,
lying at two cables'-lengths apart, E--'s two
quick-firers covering the prize as the boat made for the
German vessel.

Devereux was received with well-feigned affability
by the soi-disant Swedish skipper, a politeness that
the sub thought fit to reciprocate, at least for the
present.

But when Devereux had examined the supposed
*Gefle's* papers his manner underwent a change.

"Thanks for letting me see them, Herr Kapitan,"
he remarked, "but now I must ask you to order
your crew below and consider yourself a prisoner of
war.  I warn you that at any attempt at resistance
your ship will be sent to the bottom."

"But----," began the astonished Hun.  "I--I
do not understand.  This Swedish merchant-ship.
You mistake make."

"Perhaps," drawled the sub.  "If I have, I'll
take full responsibility.  If you can satisfactorily
explain to the British naval authorities why you
were surrounded by Hun submarines yesterday,
why you supplied them with munitions of war, why
you were then His Imperial Majesty's ship *Kondor*,
and why you are now the s.s. *Gefle*----."

"Donnerwetter!" ejaculated the German skipper
furiously, then, before Devereux could interpose, he
dashed out of the chart-house and shouted to one of
the officers stationed aft.

Almost immediately a muffled explosion was
heard, and the *Kondor*, giving a violent shudder,
began to settle by the stern.  Rather than
surrender, their captain had given orders for a bomb
to be exploded in the after hold.

"We have cheated you, Englishman!" he
exclaimed in a shrill falsetto.

There was a wild rush for the boats.  Hastily
those in davits were lowered, with the result that
one was capsized, while in the confusion a German
seaman leapt headlong into the submarine's
collapsible boat and overturned it.

To do him credit, the kapitan made no attempt
to quit the bridge.  Regarding the British officer
with a leer of triumph, he waited while the
panic-stricken men got clear of the doomed ship.

Meanwhile, having witnessed the swamping of
her dinghy, E--had approached with the intention
of taking off her boarding-party.

"What's that?" exclaimed Devereux, as, during
a temporary lull in the clamour, the sound of a
voice appealing for help was borne to his ears.  The
words were shouted in unmistakable English.

"Someone cooped up down below, sir," declared
one of the submarine's crew.

Devereux looked enquiringly at the German
skipper of the *Kondor*.  The latter too had heard
the shout.  The self-assurance and air of
contemptuous indifference faded instantly.

"You murderous swine!" ejaculated the sub.
"What dirty game have you been up to?  Come
along down below with me."

The Hun, trembling violently, clung desperately
to the bridge rail.  The risk of going below and
being taken down by the sinking ship was nothing
compared with the fear of a just retribution.

It was not a suitable occasion for arguing the
point.  Devereux, a huge, loose-limbed fellow, was
a giant beside the little, podgy Hun.

Wrenching the kapitan's hand from the rail,
Devereux dropped him to the deck like a sack of
flour, then, skipping down the bridge ladder, he
picked him up and carried him, screaming and
struggling, down the companion.

Guided by the sounds, the sub bore his captive
for'ard, two of the submarine's crew following their
youthful officer.

Already the stern of the *Kondor* was almost level
with the water, while her decks inclined at a steep
angle.  Above the noise of the inrushing water and
the hiss of escaping steam, could be heard the now
frantic appeal for help.

At the door of the cell Devereux was confronted
by a grave problem.  The place was locked, and
the kapitan, asserting truthfully that he did not
possess a key, was clamouring incoherently that
the mistake in overlooking the fact that there were
prisoners below was not his, but that of some of
his subordinates.

"Stand aside there!" shouted Devereux to the
inmates of the cell.

Whipping out his revolver he sent a bullet crashing
through the lock, then, heedless of the cry of
agony that came from the German skipper, he
charged the splintered door with his shoulder.

In the half light he was dimly aware that two
people were scrambling between the debris.

"Any more?" he asked.

"No," was the reply, as the two rescued men,
assisted by the sailors, reeled along the sloping
alley-way to the ladder.

Having seen the would-be victims of German
*Kultur* safely on their way to the upper deck,
Devereux realized that it was quite time to make
good his own escape, for the water was beginning
to surge for'ard along the sombre orlop deck.  As
he turned to make his way aft he became aware
that the kapitan, moaning dismally, was staggering
in the opposite direction, whence there was no
outlet.

"Where are you off to, you blithering idiot?"
shouted the young officer.

In a couple of strides he overtook the Hun,
gripped him round the waist, and carried him on
deck.  Then, to his surprise, Devereux found that
the kapitan's face was streaming with blood.  A
sliver of lead from the bullet that had demolished
the lock of the cell had struck him in the right eye,
completely destroying the optic nerve.

"Can't say I feel sorry for you," thought the
sub-lieutenant, recollections of the cold-blooded
cruelty of the Hun vividly in his mind.  Nevertheless,
still holding the injured skipper, he leapt
overboard, whither the rest of the boarding-party
had preceded him.

Strong as he was, Devereux had a hard tussle to
swim to the submarine.  Caught by vicious eddies,
swirled to and fro like a straw on the surface of a
mountain torrent, he was almost exhausted when
hauled into safety.

Giving a glance over his shoulder as he was
assisted to the deck of his own craft, Devereux
saw that the *Kondor* was making her last plunge.
Throwing her bluff bows high in the air, she
disappeared in a smother of foam and a pall of black
smoke mingled with steam.

Then, to his surprise, upon going aft to report to
his commanding officer, Devereux found Huxtable
shaking, like a pump-handle, the hand of one of
the men he had rescued.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the astonished Devereux.
"Blest if we haven't----!  Why, it's Sefton!"

"Guilty, m'lud!" replied that worthy.

"And Crosthwaite--he wasn't on that hooker?"
asked Devereux anxiously.

"No, thank heaven," replied Sefton fervently.
"He's still in hospital.  This is my young brother.
I've got to blame him for this business, the young
rascal.  It was a narrow squeak for the pair of us."

"It was," assented Huxtable gravely.  "We
spotted the *Kondor* yesterday and kept her under
observation."

"Then you bagged that Hun battleship?" enquired Sefton.

"No, worse luck," replied the lieutenant-commander
of E--.  "She altered helm just as we
were having a shot at her, and some other fellows
did the trick.  Mustn't complain, though.  We are
all members of the same co-operative society in the
trade.  The *Kondor's* crew?  A few hours in the boats
won't hurt them, and I'll wireless our destroyers.
They are too villainous a crew to slip out of our
hands.  Come below, old man, and we'll rig the
pair of you out in dry kit.  With luck, you ought
to be in Pompey again within twenty-four hours."

----

Pacing the diminutive quarter-deck of
H.M.T.B.D. *Boanerges*, as she swung to the first of the
flood-tide, were two naval officers.  It was too dark
to distinguish their features, even in the red glow
of their cigarettes.

Three months had elapsed since the desperate
struggle on Blackstone Edge.  The *Boanerges*, a
brand-new destroyer recently delivered from the
Clyde, had just commissioned at Portsmouth for
service with the Grand Fleet.

"My dear Boxspanner," remarked the taller of
the twain, "I've come to the conclusion that life
ashore isn't worth the candle.  In common
parlance, I'm fed up.  The last straw is the abominable
petrol tax.  Just fancy, the blighters allow me two
gallons a month----"

"You weren't on leave for more than three weeks,
Pills," interrupted the engineer-lieutenant.

"Just so; that's the rub.  I could have done
with a three months' allowance, and used the lot
in a week.  By the way, talking of that new
carburetter----"

"Boat ahoy!" came a hoarse hail from the
fo'c'sle as the lynx-eyed look-out detected a dark
object approaching under oars towards the destroyer.

"Aye, aye!" was the orthodox reply, given in
clear, decisive tones.

The boat was brought smartly alongside the
accommodation-ladder, and a young officer came
briskly over the side.  Jack Sefton, "sub" no
longer but a full-fledged "luff", as the two gold
rings, surmounted by a curl, on each of his sleeves
denoted.

"Well?" enquired Boxspanner eagerly.  "Have
you seen Crosthwaite?"

"Saw him this afternoon," was the reply.
"Passed the medical board with flying colours.
He's reported fit for duty on the 8th."

"Good business!" ejaculated Stirling fervently.

"And," continued Sefton, "I'm in the know.
Our owner's due for promotion.  He'll be given
a light cruiser; and unless I'm very much
mistaken we'll have Crosthwaite as our skipper before
long."

"Quartermaster!" said Sefton, as he turned to
descend the companion-ladder.

"Sir," replied that worthy, already known to our
readers as Thomas Brown, A.B., but now a
promising petty officer.

"See that I am turned out at 5.45."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The three officers disappeared below.  The
quartermaster smiled grimly as the faint words of
the chorus of "They don't run corridor cars on our
branch line" caught his ear, followed by an
emphatic "Chuck it, old bird."

"Proper jonnick they are, every mother's son of
'em," muttered P.O. Brown, as he walked for'ard.
"Chaps as us fellows would go through 'ell with,
if we ain't done so already," his thought reverting
to that memorable action in the North Sea when
the Huns fled before Jellicoe's armed might.

And thus we say "Adieu," or perhaps "Au
revoir," to three gallant gentlemen who had so
worthily played their parts in upholding the
honour of the White Ensign with Beatty off Jutland.

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