Chapter VI: Floating Peril

Submarine mines are not, contrary to a general belief among folks ashore, deliberately released on the surface and allowed to float away in the hope that ocean currents will bear them into the path of shipping. That is a far too hit-and-miss method for the “efficient” Germans. Mines are expensive things to manufacture and the enemy does not knowingly waste them. What she does is release them, either from mine-laying submarines or from surface boats, with weight and buoyancy nicely adjusted so that they will anchor themselves and float at a given depth below water. The anchor, generally of the familiar mushroom type, is attached to a steel cable which unwinds until automatically stopped by a hydrostatic valve. The valve may be adjusted at will, and when the ocean depth is known it is a simple matter to plant the mine so that it will float at the desired depth below the surface, usually from eight to twelve feet. Still, errors of adjustment are sometimes made and frequently the tide is not taken sufficiently into consideration. The air chamber is filled at a certain pressure in port, but this pressure frequently changes before the mine is laid, in which case the mine does not float at the desired depth. In high water and a strongly running tide the mine rises obliquely from the anchor. Consequently, when the pull of the tide ceases the mine straightens perpendicularly and often shows itself above water.

There are, however, such things as floating mines, as many an unfortunate ship has discovered to its sorrow; but they are mines that, in some fashion or other, have become separated from their anchors. Generally such mines, if picked up unexploded, show the cable to have been broken, just how is a matter of conjecture, although there are cases where the mine has become detached from the cable or the cable has come away from the anchor. Doubtless of the hundreds of thousands of mines planted by the countries at war, a fairly large proportion go astray. Scarcely a day passes that many are not found and either salvaged or blown to pieces, and the marvel is that more destruction is not caused by these irresponsible weapons. It is only necessary to exert a nine-pound pressure against one of the several “horns,” or firing pins, which project from the body of the mine in order to explode the three, four or five hundred pounds of gun-cotton or trinitrotoluol within, and the slightest bump of a vessel’s hull is sufficient.

Why fate should have brought the _944_ and a floating mine together at the entrance to St. George Channel is beyond me, but it did.

Dave was fast asleep in his bunk in that hour before the dawn, curled up very snugly and peacefully dreaming of―― But he never remembered his dreams, for his waking was far too abrupt. He was conscious of a frightful grinding, crashing explosion, of being hurled through space, and of coming into violent contact with something very hard and unyielding. Darkness and confusion surrounded him. Succeeding the sound of the explosion, deep silence held for a long moment. Then cries of alarm, command and conjecture broke forth. Dave picked himself from the floor of the fo’c’sle, collided with some one, and made blindly for the companion. He made out Pete’s voice in the sudden babel of noise. “They’ve got us!” Pete was saying angrily. “The dirty Huns have got us!” Dave pushed up the ladder and sprang toward the boats. Orders were coming now.

“Cut those lashings! Steady, men! Don’t rush! All together, now, heave! Make fast to the falls!”

The deck was canting and the port railing was under water when the boat on that side was swung outboard on its davits. From the waist clouds of white steam billowed spectrally in the darkness. After the first minute or two of confusion silence reigned aboard the chaser, a silence broken only by the rushing of escaping steam from the boiler room, the commands of the officers, and the orderly bustle of the men. There was little time to lose, for it was apparent at once that the explosion had done for the _944_ and that she would remain afloat but a short while. Perhaps eight minutes elapsed from the moment of the catastrophe to the instant that the order “Clear away!” was given. The port boat had no difficulty, but the starboard, because of the chaser’s cant, was nearly overturned in lowering. One man went into the water, but was pulled out again. Having pulled clear, the two boats lay by. The lieutenant had returned to his quarters to secure the code books and papers, and those in the boats awaited his return anxiously, the starboard boat lying close to the stern, ready to take him off. Fortunately, the sea was fairly calm and the night only moderately chill, for few of the men were dressed in more than their underclothes and life-vests. The _944_ was settling rapidly, going down port side under and slightly by the bow.

The port boat, minus two of her complement of fourteen, drifted away, and Ensign Hyatt ordered them to paddle back closer to the other boat. The two vacancies were caused by the absence of Pruitt and Low, both of the engine room force. They and one other had been killed, although whether by the explosion or by escaping steam was not known. Many of the men on duty at the time had suffered injuries, but none seriously.

“She’ll sink in a minute now,” said Pete anxiously at Dave’s back. Both he and Dill were in the port boat and unhurt. “I wish the Old Man would hurry up.”

Then, almost before the last word was past his lips, there was a warning cry from the starboard boat, the oars backed water, and the gallant little _944_ buried her nose and went from sight. There was a swirl of water that made the life-boats dance for a minute like cockles, and then silence, emptiness, and darkness.

The two boats dashed forward across the spot, and the lanterns were held to sweep the water. But there was no sign of the lieutenant. Back and forth they paddled, calling and listening, and at last, when it seemed certain that the chaser’s commander had perished with his ship, a faint hail came from the darkness ahead of the port boat. The men bent quickly at their oars, and the lantern’s rays flickered anxiously. In a moment they saw him, a darker splotch on the waves, and presently, nearly exhausted, but clutching his precious papers, the lieutenant was pulled into the boat.

“I was half-way up the ladder when she dived,” he gasped. “She took me down with her and something caught my leg. I think I hurt it a little getting loose.” They had called to the other boat that the lieutenant was safe, and now the ensign shouted to them to pull across.

“You stay here, sir,” he said, “and I’ll change into the starboard boat. We’d better lay our course for the Scillies, I presume.”

“Certainly. St. Martin is the nearest. About thirty-four miles, I’d say. Make it southeast by south, three quarters south. If this breeze holds we should make land by daylight.”

“Very good, sir. You’d better do what you can for your leg, hadn’t you?”

“It can wait, thanks. It’s nothing of importance. We’ll keep together if possible, I think.”

The ensign made his transfer to the stern sheets of the starboard boat, masts were stepped and the lug sails took the breeze and the course was set for the nearest of the Scilly Islands. In the port boat Lieutenant Cowan himself took the tiller. There was enough breeze to send the little boat along at a good four or five miles an hour, and so there was no need of using the oars. Spray flew in pretty constantly over the low gunwales and soon they were all shivering, as the water penetrated their scanty clothing. The wind came from the west, or very near it, and it was possible to hold her to her course fairly well. The dim light of the other boat gradually fell away to starboard and finally vanished, suggesting that she was not making quite as good headway. In spite of chattering teeth the occupants were cheerful. They all felt sorry over the loss of the _944_, for they had become attached to her, and the deaths of their three shipmates weighed on their minds, but they had had a miraculous escape from a very great danger, and that fact was enough to counteract on depression. The lieutenant was silent most of the time, doubtless dejected by the loss of his boat, and the men respected his feelings. But gradually a low tone of conversation succeeded the whispering, and at last, just as the first streaks of day showed in the east, some irrepressible started to whistle softly in the bow and soon they were all humming and then singing the song.

“Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thro’ the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming.
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”

Even the lieutenant, his face looking grave and white in the gray half-darkness, joined in, although the lieutenant’s singing voice was nothing to boast of. They sang the anthem through to the last word――something that few, if any, of them would have been able to do six months before, gaining new fervor as they went on. As one clear boyish voice started the first note of the final stanza, a flush of pink mingled with the dull gray of the eastern sky and tinged it with the soft colors of a dove’s breast, and day lay just below the watery horizon.

“Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and wild war’s desolation;
Blest with vict’ry and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: ‘In God is Our Trust!’
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!”

As the last lingering note died on the air Kennedy raised a hand and pointed eastward.

“That looks like smoke, sir, doesn’t it?” he asked.