Chapter XXIII: On the Rocks

"So I haven't been able to chuck you fellows yet," remarked Lieutenant-commander Tressidar. "And what is more I see no likelihood at present of so doing. We've just had a wireless to proceed east to a position somewhere off the mouth of the Humber."

"We are not at all fed up with your hospitality, Tress," replied Fuller, "only we ought to have been on board the old 'Hippo' long ago. I think, if there's a chance, we ought to get ashore, report to the Commander-in-Chief and await orders."

The "Antipas" was steaming at a good twenty knots. It was late in the afternoon; the sea calm, the sky slightly overcast. With a steadily-rising glass the weather showed indication of continuing fine, notwithstanding the presence of patches of sea-fog.

Towards sunset the fog increased until it was no longer safe for the destroyer to maintain her speed. Fishing boats, dauntlessly risking the submarine menace, were frequently in these waters. To tear blindfold through the dense mist would be courting disaster.

The slowing down of the engines brought the three airmen on deck.

"Fog!" exclaimed Kirkwood. "Rough luck. I thought that we were entering port when the skipper rang down for easy ahead."

"Pretty thick, too," added Barcroft. "It's as much as I can do to see the bridge. Beastly calm, too; what do you say to returning to our little rubber of dummy?"

"Now I'm here I'll stop," decided Fuller, drawing his coat across his chest. "Hullo! they're taking soundings. That looks as if we were nearing shore."

For nearly an hour the "Antipas" literally "smelt her way." Darkness had fallen, and with it the fog bank increased in density and dimensions. No longer was it possible to discern anything beyond a couple of yards. No discordant hoot blared from the syren, no navigation lights were shown. Beyond slowing down nothing more could be done, owing to war conditions, to safeguard the destroyer from risks of collision.

"Hullo, you fellows!" exclaimed the lieutenant of the destroyer as, clad in oilskins, sou'wester and sea boots, he groped his way for'ard. "Have we made it too comfortable for you down below?"

"Didn't know that it was your 'trick,'" remarked Barcroft.

"Neither is it. That's one of the penalties of serving on a destroyer. You never know when you're off duty. The skipper's just spoken through: we're on the track of a strafed U-boat. Picked her up by microphone."

"Here's to the bridge, then," decided Fuller. "Come on, you would-be card-players. Let's see the fun."

"One of the advantages of going dead slow, I suppose," commented Tressidar as his guests rejoined him. "We've cut across the trail of a submarine, that's certain. Come in, and see how things are progressing."

The lieutenant-commander opened the door of the chart-room. Against one bulkhead stood the receiver of the submarine-signalling apparatus. Standing in front of it was a bluejacket with both ear-pieces clipped to his ears. With his left hand he was alternately actuating the switch that connects both receivers.

"Right dead on, sir," he reported. "Less than a couple of cables' lengths ahead, I'll allow."

Behind him stood the helmsman at the steam-steering gear, his eyes fixed upon the cryptic movements of the operator's hands, as the latter transmitted the course to the quartermaster.

The principle of the microphone signalling apparatus is simple enough. In the vessel's hold and as far beneath the waterline as possible, are two metal tanks each filled with water and containing two sensitive instruments that readily pick up sounds transmitted through the medium afforded by the sea. One tank is placed on the starboard the other on the port side, and both are connected by wires with the receiver in the chart-room.

Supposing the operator hears the thud of a distant propeller, and the sound is more distinct from the port side he knows that the submerged vessel is somewhere in that direction. Conversely, the sound being greater in the right-hand receiver he is able to locate the object emitting the sound as being on the starboard side of the ship. When the volume of sound passing through both receivers is equal the operator knows that the vessel's bows are pointing practically "dead on" to the unseen but audible peril.

"That's all very fine," remarked Kirkwood. "But supposing that man has a cold in one ear. How is he to guard against being misled by the inequalities of hearing? I've heard of a fellow being deaf in one ear and not knowing it for months."

"The inventors have taken that into consideration," replied Tressidar. "That's why both ears are connected with the receiver on one side only of the vessel at a time. As he turns that switch from side to side both ears are listening to the sounds from the port and starboard tanks alternately. What's that?" he added, addressing the operator. "Three cables ahead? This won't do; she's gaining on us."

The skipper quitted the chart-room, followed by the three airmen. Coming from the lighted compartment; they were momentarily dazzled by the transition from artificial illumination to murky, pitch-black night.

"Increase speed to fifteen knots," ordered Tressidar. "Where there's water for that strafed U-boat there's enough for us.... Overhauling her? All right; twelve knots, then."

"Those fellows have plenty of nerve," remarked Barcroft, "or else they've no nerves at all. Suppose fog doesn't make the slightest difference to them when they are submerged, but to us it appears otherwise. What is that U-boat doing, I should like to know, plugging along at twelve knots and in the direction of the British coast?"

"Keeping a pressing appointment, perhaps," said the A.P. with a laugh.

"Many a true word spoken in jest, old bird," rejoined the flight-sub. "It is----"

"A little less talking there, if you please," interrupted Tressidar curtly.

The three airmen took the hint. It was only on very rare occasions that the genial lieutenant-commander "choked any one off." It was an indication of the mental strain upon the skipper of the "Antipas."

"By Jove! if she does come up," thought Barcroft. "It will be Third Single to Perdition for a set of skulking pirates. The fog is lifting, too. I can distinguish the wave-crests nearly a cable's length ahead. We'll be into another patch in another minute, though, worse luck."

Suddenly the watchers on the destroyer's bridge caught sight of a short series of flashes slightly on the port bow, and perhaps at a distance of a mile.

In a trice Tressidar brought his binoculars to bear upon the glimmer of light, thanking Heaven as he did so that a rift in the fog enabled him to spot the presence of the hunted Hun. The powerful night-glasses revealed the outlines of a conning-tower and twin periscopes just emerging from the waves. Then as quickly as it appeared the light vanished. It was enough. The lieutenant-commander could still discern the patch of phosphorescence that encircled the partly submerged U-boat.

"Starboard ten!" ordered Tressidar, at the same time telegraphing for full speed ahead both engines.

Before the destroyer could work up to her maximum speed her knife-like bows rasped and bit deeply into the hull of the doomed unterseeboot. An almost imperceptible jar as the quivering vessel glided over her prey, a smother of agitated water on either hand, and the deed was done. Another of the modern pirate craft had been dispatched to its last home.

"Voices ahead, sir," shouted the look-out man. "Land ahead! By smoke! We've done it."

The engine-room telegraph bell clanged shrilly. As the propeller blades bit the water with reversed action the "Antipas" began to lose way. It was too late.

With a shock that threw almost every officer and man to the deck the destroyer charged bows on to a ledge of rocks. Her forefoot lifted almost clear of the water, while to the accompaniment of the hiss of escaping vapour from a fractured main steam-pipe, the "Antipas" buckled amidships.

"Clear lower deck! All hands fall in facing outboard!" ordered the skipper.

From the mess-deck the "watch below," already roused by the impact of the destroyer with the ill-starred U-boat, came tumbling out, forming up in orderly silence to await further commands. Out of the steam-laden stokehold and engine-room staggered black-faced, partly-clad men, many suffering from the effects of terrible scalds, while others, too badly injured to help themselves, were assisted by their heroic comrades. Risking a hideous death in the partly-flooded engine-room the devoted "ratings" performed acts of valour that, although unseen and unheard of, represent the acme of courage. Fresh from the overheated stokehold and engine-room the survivors of the "Black Squad" found themselves faced with the immediate prospect of involuntary immersion in the chill waters of the North Sea.

"Ahoy!" shouted a seaman at the skipper's instigation. "Where are we?"

"'Ard aground," replied a voice through the darkness.

In spite of their hazardous position several of the crew laughed, and tried to switch on a husky cough to hide their levity from their officers. The unknown's reply was certainly brief and to the point, but hardly the sort of answer that Tressidar required.

"Silence there!" he ordered.

Then a boyish voice penetrated the night air.

"You're on Black Ghyll reef," it announced. "Do you require any assistance?"

"Not at present," replied the lieutenant-commander. "You might stand by, though, in case we do."

The after part of the "Antipas" was now a couple of feet beneath the water, and had settled on the sandy bottom of the bay. With the falling tide--it was just after high-water springs when the destroyer grounded--there was no immediate necessity to abandon ship. Nevertheless it was imperative that the injured men should be taken ashore, and assistance obtained as quickly as possible if there should be any possible chance of salving the wreck.

"Clear away the whaler!" was the next order.

The boat was manned and rowed cautiously towards the shore. Although the sea was calm the men were in total ignorance of the nature of the coast. Lacking local knowledge they were not even at all certain whether a landing might be effected. On either side rose the jagged points of vicious-looking rocks, while looming against the misty starlight could be discerned a range of frowning cliffs with no apparent break in the line of continuity.

"Thank God that there ain't a stiffish onshore breeze," muttered the coxswain of the whaler. "'Tain't 'arf a rotten crib."

"Boat ahoy!" came the same boyish hail from the invisible strand. "Starboard a bit.... You're close on the Double Fang. I'll tell you when to turn.... Now, straight in. It's all sand here."

The whaler's forefoot grounded on the soft shore. The coxswain, producing a small handlantern from the stern sheets flashed it upon the group of figures gathered at the water's edge four Boy Scouts.

"Crikey!" ejaculated the coxswain admiringly. "You're game'uns. Wot are you doing here at this time o' night?"

"We're coast-watching," replied the patrol leader. "We had just collared a spy when your vessel ran ashore. There's a chief petty officer of coastguard up the top of the cliff."

The lad did not think it necessary to explain that the petty officer had rather wisely declined to risk his neck by clambering down the precipitous face of the rugged wall of rock. At his age he lacked the steady head and sureness of foot that were essential for such feats of agility.

"Landing's easy enough when you knows 'ow," remarked the coxswain. "I've been sent ashore to find out. Look 'ere, we've a dozen or more badly injured hands aboard, an' we wants to get 'em off. Any chance of carrying 'em up those cliffs?"

The lad shook his head.

"Not up the cliffs," he explained. "There's a path up the valley. It leads to Scarby."

"Any doctors there?"

"None nearer than Tongby. We'll send a couple of Scouts there, if you like."

"P'raps you'd better," agreed the man. "It's a tidy 'andful for our Pills--our doctor, that is. All right, chummy, you might stand by and give us a hail when we come ashore again. 'Tis a rum crib, swelp me, if it ain't--but it might be worse."

The whaler backed from the shore, to return presently with a heavy load of wounded men and other members of the destroyer's crew told off to carry the injured to the nearest house.

Guided by the patrol leader the grim procession set out on its journey of pain. The fearfully scalded men, temporarily bandaged by the R.N.R. Surgeon Probationer borne on the destroyer's books as doctor, groaned and uttered involuntary cries of agony as, in spite of the care of the bearers, they were jolted along the narrow, uneven path.

Presently the scout came to a sudden halt. "There's a man lying at the foot of the Cliffs," he exclaimed. "Why, it's Pattercough, the man we were looking for when we captured the second spy."

A seaman bent over the body.

"Dead as a bloomin' doornail," he announced. "He's broke 'is bloomin' neck an' saved the 'angman a job, I'll allow that is, if he's the spy you says he was. Lead on, matey. The dead must look after themselves while this affair's under way."

At the meeting of the path with the by-road the patrol-leader stopped.

"It's straight on to Scarby," he explained. "Bennet," he added, addressing his companion. "You go with these sailors and show them the coastguard station. Then come back; bring the other fellows along with you if they've returned. I'll go to the beach again in case there are more to be shown the path up the valley."

Meanwhile Lieutenant-commander Ronald Tressidar was "standing by" his wrecked vessel. He had done everything he could in the interests of the crew. Until day broke it was impossible to form an accurate idea of the extent of the disaster. It was galling to lose his command; there would be a court of inquiry. Of the issue of that Tressidar had no misgivings. The "Antipas" had run ashore in the course of an action with an enemy submarine. The mishap was to be deplored, but it was unavoidable. The destruction of the hostile submarine had been accomplished. That was the object of the destroyer's _raison d'etre_.

"Can we be of any use?" asked Fuller.

"Not in the slightest, thanks," replied the youthful skipper. "The best you fellows can do is to go ashore. Goodness only knows if there's a railway anywhere in the neighbourhood. At any rate, you can make your way back to Rosyth, and better luck next time. If by any possible chance I can keep you clear of the court of inquiry I will do so. I know perfectly well that you want to be hard at it again, and the 'Hippodrome' seems likely to be particularly busy very shortly, according to all accounts."

"Good luck, old man!" said Fuller earnestly, The three airmen shook hands with the skipper, and dropping into the whaler were rowed shorewards.

"Hard lines on old Tress," declared Fuller. "He'll come out with flying colours, of course; but just fancy the poor fellow cooling his heels ashore waiting for another command when out there----"

And with a comprehensive sweep of his hand he indicated the seemingly limitless expanse of the North Sea--the arena where the question of naval supremacy will be settled, let us hope once and for all time in favour of the glorious White Ensign.