CHAPTER XXVI
THE HOMECOMING OF THE S.S. "MEROPE"
"Evenin' paper. British cruiser sunk."
The shrill cries of a very small youth blessed with a pair of powerful lungs greeted Doris Greenwood as the train in which she was travelling south from Scotland pulled up at Peterborough.
The majority of the passengers heard the announcement with hardly more than passing interest. This was one of the results of the greatest war the world has ever seen. In the early phases of the struggle the loss of a British warship, in spite of the fact that the Press took particular pains to explain that she was a semi-obsolete craft of no great fighting value, was a subject of great concern. On the principle that familiarity breeds contempt, the recurrence of for the most part unavoidable naval disasters was borne by the public with a fatalism bordering upon indifference, save by those whose kith and kin were fighting "somewhere in the North Sea," or were upholding the traditions of the Senior Service in the distant seas within the war zone.
The loss of the "Titanic" in the piping times of peace afforded columns of detailed copy in the Press. The torpedoing or mining of a battleship in the Great War was curtly dismissed in half a dozen lines.
Stepping into the corridor of the carriage, Doris called to the newsboy and bought a paper. An inexplicable kind of presentiment gripped the girl's mind as she unfolded the double sheet of paper, still moist from the printing-press.
The double-leaded headlines gave no information on the particular subject; nor did the rest of the ordinary headings. Sandwiched between reports of local markets and racing was a blurred "Stop Press" announcement:
"The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to report that the light cruiser 'Heracles' has been sunk. Feared loss of all hands."
How, when, or where was not stated, nor was any mention made of the engagement with the two German cruisers. The uncertainty of the whole business, save for the absolute statement that the "Heracles" was lost, rendered the blow even more stunning. For the rest of the journey to King's Cross Doris sat dry-eyed, hardly able to grasp the dread significance of the terrible news.
The girl had been somewhat unexpectedly given fourteen days' leave. She was on her way to her home in Devonshire, intent upon making the best of every moment of her hard-earned holiday. And now she was going to a house of gloom. Eric and Ronald—her brother and the young officer who day by day seemed more and more to her—were missing and presumably dead.
On arriving in London, Doris found people wildly excited over the destruction of the "Stoshfeld" and "Lemburg." The news had just been published, together with the additional information that the "Heracles" had been engaged with the former hostile vessel, and that after the "Castor" and "Pollux" had sunk the "Lemburg," they had gone in search of their consort and found unmistakable signs that she had been sunk. For the officers and crew of the lost cruiser no hope was now entertained.
It was late in the evening when the girl alighted at the country station of the little Devonshire town. News of the disaster had preceded her. Mr. Greenwood was trying to persuade himself that it was his privilege to be the father of one who had given his life for King and Country, but somehow the attempt was a dismal failure. Mrs. Greenwood was on the verge of collapse and required all the attention that could be given. The horrible uncertainty—the lack of definite evidence—was the hardest for her to bear.
Several days passed. Letters of condolence began to arrive, each missive driving another nail into the coffin of a dead hope. The official notification from the Admiralty of the presumed death of Assistant Paymaster Eric Greenwood, R.N.R., gave the coup de grâce to the long-drawn-out suspense.
On the seventh day after her return Doris felt that she must go for a long ramble. The call of the cliffs was irresistible. Accompanied by her dog, she set out in the direction of Prawle Point, a favourite walk in those long-ago pre-war days.
It was misty when the girl gained the edge of the red cliffs. A sea-fog had held for nearly forty-eight hours. The on-shore wind blew cold and clammy, although spring was well advanced and the trees and hedges were acquiring their new garb of verdure. Some distance away the fog signals from Start Point gave out its mournful wail—one blast of seven seconds every two minutes. It seemed in harmony with the times—a dirge over the ocean grave of many a brave seaman, lost in the service of his country. Doris wandered on till she came within a short distance of the signal station. Here she sat, watching the sullen rollers breaking into masses of foam against the jagged ledges of rock that jut out from the wild Prawle Point.
Along the narrow cliff path a sailor was tramping. As he approached, Doris recognised him as one of the coastguards from the neighbouring station. Owing to the importance of the station, the men had not been sent afloat on the outbreak of war, as was the case of hundreds of the detachments scattered around the coast; they did their duty well by remaining for signalling purposes, as several hostile submarines found to their cost.
The man knew Doris. Saluting, he stopped and chatted. Aware of the girl's loss, he tactfully made no reference to the sinking of the "Heracles," but confined his remarks to events in the district.
Presently the sun burst through the bank of mist. As if by magic the sea became visible for several miles. It was not deserted. A long way from shore two large transports escorted by destroyers were proceeding up-Channel. Considerably nearer was a small tramp, steaming in the direction of Prawle Point.
The coastguard paused in the midst of a detailed description of his garden and looked seaward.
"What is that vessel coming straight towards the shore for?" asked Doris.
"Dunno, miss; that is, unless she's been bamboozled by the fog and is coming in to make sure of her position. Maybe the coast appears a bit hazy from where she is. There, I thought so; she's porting her helm. She's off up-Channel."
As he spoke, the tramp hoisted her colours over a red and white pennant—signifying that she wished to communicate with the signal station. Slowing down, she exchanged signals for nearly a quarter of an hour, then proceeded with increased speed in an easterly direction.
"Quite a lot of signalling," remarked Doris.
"Yes, miss," agreed the man. "More'n usual. P'raps she's been chased by a German submarine, though there don't look much wrong with her. You'm curious, miss?"
"A little," admitted the girl. "At these times messages from passing ships may mean a lot."
"True, miss, true," agreed the coastguard as he prepared to resume his way. "I'll enquire, miss, an' if it ain't confidential, I'll nip back and tell 'ee."
The girl sat down again, and, almost unconsciously patting the dog, kept her eyes directed seawards. She had almost forgotten the coastguard's promise when she became aware that he was returning swiftly.
"Miss," he exclaimed excitedly, "'tes good news. Yon vessel is the 'Merope.' She's got on board a hundred an' eleven officers and men from the 'Heracles.' She's landing 'em at Dartmouth."
"Any names?" asked the girl.
"No, miss."
"Thank you," she said quietly, then she set off homewards.
One hundred and eleven survivors. Roughly one in every five of the "Heracles'" original complement. Was it too much to hope that the two in whom she was most concerned were amongst those who had escaped?
Gradually she formed her plans. Until more news was obtainable, she decided not to raise false hopes in her parents' minds. She would keep the tidings to herself until——
The hoot of a motor-car interrupted her train of thought. Bowling along the narrow, sunken lane was a six-seater owned by Dr. Cardyke, a retired practitioner who had been "dug out" of his retreat to act as surgeon to a military hospital.
Recognising the girl, the doctor slowed down.
"A lift, Miss Greenwood? I'm going close to your house?"
Doris accepted the invitation gratefully.
"I'm just off to Dartmouth and back," continued the doctor. "Wonderful things these cars after one has been used to a horse. Get there in no time, to use a common expression."
Dr. Cardyke spoke with all the enthusiasm of a keen motorist, in spite of his sixty-odd years. Had he been any one else but a well-known country practitioner, he might have been "run in" for furious driving times without number, but luck and a "benevolent neutrality" on the part of the police had hitherto steered him clear of the police-courts.
"Dartmouth?" repeated Doris. "Would you mind, doctor, if you—I mean, will you take me to Dartmouth with you?"
"Certainly, my dear young lady," replied the doctor gallantly. "But, pardon my curiosity, for why? It's too late to do any shopping, you know. Early closing day, you know."
"It's not that," said the girl, glad of the chance to confide her secret and her hopes to someone. "There are more than a hundred survivors of the 'Heracles' being landed at Dartmouth, and I——"
The sentence remained unfinished. Dr. Cardyke gave a grunt that betokened sympathy and encouragement.
"'Pon my word!" he exclaimed as he touched the accelerator. "'Pon my word! How very remarkable!"
The car simply bounded along. The straight level road by Slapton Sands it covered at a good fifty miles an hour; with hardly a perceptible effort, but with many a jolt, it breasted the steep ascent at Stoke Fleming and was soon careering madly down the almost precipitous slope to the valley of the Dart, never halting till it pulled up on the quay of old-world Dartmouth.
"There she is, sir," said a fisherman in answer to the doctor's enquiry. "Just a-comin' round Castle Ledge."
News of the impending arrival of the survivors of the "Heracles," had preceded the "Merope." Already Lloyd's staff at Prawle Point had telegraphed the glad tidings, and the report had been spread far and wide. Hundreds of Dartmouth townsfolk were gathered on the quays and on the high ground by the old castle. Half a dozen steamboats crammed with wildly excited naval cadets had left the College quay and were pelting down the harbour to greet the returning warriors. Dartmouth had not seen such a day since the last pre-war regatta.
Slowly the "Merope" approached the anchorage on the Kingswear side of the harbour. As she drew abreast of the quay Doris could see the comparatively limited expanse of deck crowded with men. Few of them wore naval uniforms. Here and there could be distinguished a seaman wearing a service jumper or a naval cap, but for the most part they were rigged out in canvas clothing. Some were actually wearing garments fashioned out of blankets.
"Hulloa there, Bill," shouted a Dartmouth waterman recognising an old friend on the tramp's deck. "You'm all right, us hopes?"
"Ay," was the reply, "but deuced hungry." The man voiced the sentiments of his comrades. They were in high spirits in spite of short rations.
An outward-bound Scandinavian steamer had effected the rescue of the survivors of the "Heracles," and not being equipped with wireless she was unable to send the reassuring news to any of the British cruisers which were searching fruitlessly over the spot where their consort had foundered five hours previously.
Twenty-four hours later the rescuing ship fell in with the "Merope," homeward bound, and in spite of limited accommodation and provisions her skipper gladly offered to tranship the hundred-odd officers and men of the "Heracles."
Strangely enough, the "Merope" gained the "Chops of the Channel" without getting within signalling distance of any other craft. Then a thick fog swept down, preventing her from communicating with either the Scillies or with the Lizard Station. Food was now running out. The tramp's exact position was unknown, until the sudden dispersal of the fog revealed the fact that she was within signalling distance of Prawle Point. Thus it was that her skipper judiciously decided to put in to Dartmouth, land her supernumeraries and revictual before resuming her voyage to London.
Amidst the scene of excitement Doris Greenwood remained perfectly calm—at least outwardly. Several times Dr. Cardyke glanced furtively at his companion's face.
"Plucky girl," he soliloquised. "Frightfully plucky. If her brother isn't on board, by Jove——"
A burst of cheering, louder than ever, interrupted his thoughts. The "Merope" had brought up. Her accommodation-ladder was already lowered; a small fleet of boats rubbed alongside her iron-rusted hull.
"They'm landing the whole of 'em at Kingswear side, I'll allow," declared an old salt. "Off to Plymouth 'tes for they—court-martial, or summat o' that sort."
The girl could stand the suspense no longer. Descending from the car, she called to an urchin who was about to put off in a flat-bottomed, leaky punt. It was the only available craft, for almost everything that would float was crowded with sightseers.
"Boy," she called, "will you take me off to that ship?"
The sight of a shilling decided the youngster to break faith with half a dozen of his pals, who were waiting until he had baled out his leaky argosy.
She was only just in time, for the old salt's surmise was correct. Officers and men were to be sent to the Devonport Naval Barracks to await a court of enquiry.
"Hulloa, Doris!"
It was Eric's voice. She hardly recognised in the speaker her brother. A week's growth upon his chin, his alert figure grotesquely hidden in a dungaree boiler-suit, a tarry canvas cap set jauntily on his head, and his arm in a sling.
The A.P. leant over the coaming of the picquet-boat and grasped his sister's outstretched hand.
"Bit of a surprise, eh?" he remarked. "How on earth did you get wind of it? And so jolly near home, too. If ever I felt like breaking ship it's now. Never mind, old girl! This will mean a week's leave very soon."
"And Ronald?" she asked.
"They took him ashore not two minutes ago," replied the A.P. "Cot case, you know——"
"Not seriously wounded?"
"No. Effects of exhaustion. We all had a pretty rough time, and old Tressidar was a brick... we're off. Push off, boy!"
The picquet-boat began to back away from the ladder, two of her crew using their boat-hooks to fend off the crowd of shore-craft.
"S'long, Doris," was her brother's farewell greeting. "No use coming across. They won't let you into the station. I'll give Tressidar the tip that I've seen you."
As the picquet-boat glided astern, Doris overheard a voice exclaim, "Tressidar's a lucky dog, dash it all!"
It was the engineer-sub-lieutenant who had vainly begged Tressidar for an introduction on the memorable day when the "Pompey" was sunk in Auldhaig Firth.
"Well," was Dr. Cardyke's comment as the girl ran lightly back to the car. "It's good news, I can see. No need to ask that. Now what's the programme?"
"You have business in Dartmouth," she reminded him.
"Done," rejoined the doctor laconically. "Done, while you were risking your life in that cockleshell. Suppose it's home to tell the good news?"
"Yes, if you please," replied the girl, and to her companion's mild astonishment he saw that she was crying. They were tears not of sorrow, but of joy and thankfulness—of relief that the sea had returned to her those she loved.
CHAPTER XXVII
A DAY ON DARTMOOR
"Say, Greenwood, I feel an odd man out with this little crew. Nip in and come along to keep me company. While these young people are roaming over the moors, we'll try our luck with the trout."
The speaker was Dr. Cardyke. A week had elapsed since the "Merope" had put in to Dartmouth. The court of enquiry was a thing of the past, and the surviving officers and men of the "Heracles" had been given leave.
Tressidar had gone home, having first given young Greenwood a ready promise to put in a day or two at the Greenwoods' house, and now the sub. was fulfilling his obligations.
On the morning following Tressidar's arrival the genial doctor had given the Greenwoods and their guest an invitation for a "spin in the car." Cardyke's "spin" meant a whole day on the breezy uplands of Dartmoor. Mrs. Greenwood, still feeling the reaction of her prolonged suspense, was unable to go. Her husband, having to report himself that night for duty with the National Guards, also "cried off," though not without regret. Yet, he argued proudly, work in the service of one's country that does not entail self-sacrifice isn't worth being called patriotism.
Consequently the doctor's guests were Doris and her friend Norah Ward, Eric and Ronald, and, in view of the possibility, nay probability, that he would have to commune with nature while the youthful picnickers roamed the moors, he again threw out an invitation to his old crony with the alluring prospect of trout-fishing thrown in.
"Duty, Cardyke, duty," protested Mr. Greenwood, although the doctor saw that he was wavering. "Must report at Ferncoombe Reservoir at eleven-thirty to-night."
"We'll be back long before then," said the doctor tentatively.
"I know what your motor spins are, my dear fellow," rejoined Mr. Greenwood. "It's a good hour and a half's tramp from here to Ferncoombe, remember."
"Look here, slip into your uniform. A trout won't fight shy of a fly any more for that, you know. We'll have a topping time, and I'll drop you at Ferncoombe on the return journey."
Greenwood senior figuratively hauled down his colours. With great alacrity he donned his uniform of the National Guard, deposited his rifle and fishing-tackle in the car, and took his seat alongside the doctor. The rest of the party were already in occupation of the remaining "crew-space," together with a well-filled hamper and Doris's Irish terrier.
Over the hilly road the car sped, until it gained the outskirts of a little village on the fringe of the wildly majestic Dartmoor.
"She's running badly," remarked the doctor to his companion. "Deucedly strange. I never knew her to act like that before and on a day like this."
He slowed down and pulled up. An examination revealed the fact that the radiator tank was empty.
"Not a serious matter," declared Dr. Cardyke. "I'll ask for a can of water at yonder cottage." A comely, sun-bonneted Devonshire countrywoman willingly complied with his request. While engaged in refilling the tank the doctor casually noticed that two men were passing.
"Joy-riding in war-time," remarked one to his companion in a tone that was obviously intended for the motorists' ears. "Pity those young fellows haven't anything better to do."
Tressidar and the A.P. smiled. They regarded the remark as a joke. Being in mufti, they had been taken for a pair of young slackers.
Not so Dr. Cardyke. Setting the can of water on the ground, he strode resolutely up to the man who had uttered the uncalled-for remark.
"Allow me to inform you," he said cuttingly to the somewhat astonished fellow, "that these gentlemen are naval officers. Both have been in action, and on two occasions their ships have been mined or torpedoed. The young lady [indicating Doris] is a nurse at a naval hospital that has been under hostile fire. Her companion is a voluntary Red Cross worker. My friend here, in spite of his years, is, as you see, a member of the National Guard; while I, a medical man, am engaged in purely voluntary work at three military hospitals in the district. If we choose to take a well-earned holiday, is it any concern of yours? Now, since you have interfered with our business, perhaps you will not object if I meddle with yours. What are you doing for your country?"
"I am engaged on the registration of women workers on the land," replied the man airily.
"Should have thought that the registration part was essentially a woman's work," rejoined Dr. Cardyke drily. "But is that all? Surely you have made an effort to serve in His Majesty's forces?"
"I'm over age," declared the man.
"Then that accounts for it," said the doctor triumphantly. "I noticed that those who are so keen upon urging others to 'do their bit' have good reason, or think they have good reason, for backing out themselves. Yes, sir, I said backing out. Allow me to inform you that no recruiting officer would question your statement if you said you were under forty. Try the experiment or perhaps you haven't the pluck."
The busybody slunk away, and the triumphant doctor returned to complete his task.
The journey was resumed. Up and up climbed the car 'twixt frowning tors and across stretches of wild moor clad in yellow gorse, through which trickled numerous mountain torrents on their way to feed the silvery Dart. Frequently a startled rabbit would rush across the road and dive for safety into the brushwood. Wild birds, alarmed by the purr of the motor, fled with strange cries to seek a more secluded ground. Once a red fox, caught napping, bounded frantically across a stream. These were the only signs of life visible from the car. Of human habitation, not a vestige in the wild expanse.
At length the doctor drove the car very gently on to the side of the road and stopped. This precaution was hardly necessary, since passing vehicles were few and far between.
"Now, you young people," he exclaimed, "it's a couple of hours to lunch time, unless you are ravenous already. Come along, Greenwood. Where's your tackle? A cloudy morning like this ought to make the trout rise. There's a capital stream less than a quarter of a mile away."
By tacit consent the party separated, Tressidar and Doris making their way in one direction, the A.P. and Norah in another. Whence they went and the nature of the conversation was a matter that concerned themselves. At any rate, it was safe to conjecture that they were engrossed in each other's company, since the sub. and his companion returned twenty minutes after the prearranged time and the A.P. and Norah a quarter of an hour later to find that the doctor and Greenwood senior were still lost to time and the call of hunger and were lingering over their rods by the swiftly rushing mountain-stream.
At length, in high spirits, the party assembled for lunch, the fishermen displaying with pardonable pride the successful result of their sport.
"Now, then, Tressidar," sang out the doctor as he prepared to cut a veal and ham pie, "make yourself useful. You might uncork these bottles."
"Shall I dissect the pie, sir?" asked the sub.
"The pie?" repeated Dr. Cardyke. "That's what I'm doing. Why do you ask?"
"We'll have to hoist the S.O.S. signal if you carry on," said Tressidar, laughing. "Already you've dropped a fish-hook into the gravy, and it looks as if there are more to follow."
"A good excuse to remove my coat," rejoined the doctor good-humouredly. "It certainly is hot for this time of year."
According to the custom adopted by freshwater fishermen, Dr. Cardyke had stuck his spare hooks in the sleeve of his coat, and one of them, being insufficiently held by the barb, had fallen into the pie-dish.
After lunch the young officers and their fair companions sauntered off, while Greenwood senior and the doctor had "forty winks," followed by another bout of friendly rivalry by the trout stream.
"By Jove, Doris, isn't this simply great?" exclaimed Tressidar enthusiastically, as the pair gained the top of a rugged tor. "Just look at the expanse of country. Looks a bit misty down in the valleys, though. I hope it won't get too thick. Say, do you mind if I get a pipe under way?"
The rest of the afternoon passed only too quickly. The slanting rays of the sun cast long shadows athwart the gorse as they made their way back to the spot that the sub. had termed the rendezvous. By this time the mist was rising from the low-lying ground and creeping slowly up the hillsides, until the tors looked like islands in a sea of slowly drifting fog.
"It will be pretty thick lower down," declared Eric during the course of tea. "Driving through the mist is jolly tricky."
"Pooh!" exclaimed Dr. Cardyke. "Not with reasonable care. We'll shake it off before we get to Bovey Tracey."
It was not long before the doctor found that very considerable caution was necessary, for the fog was so dense that it was hardly possible to distinguish the narrow road from the rest of the moor.
"Can you see where we're going, Greenwood?" he asked. "Frankly, I can't. It's the worst fog I've ever struck."
"I haven't been able to see anything of the road for the last twenty minutes," confessed Greenwood senior. "I think I'll change places with young Tressidar. He's used to peering through mist, I should imagine."
The car stopped and the change was effected, but Ronald found that he had hopelessly lost his bearings. Everything visible was grotesquely distorted by the fog, and magnified out of all proportion.
"Hold hard!" he exclaimed after another mile or so had been covered at almost crawling pace. "There's something right ahead."
The "something" proved to be a sign-post at the fork of two roads. None of the party had noticed it on the outward journey. Slowly the car was brought alongside. It was the only way to read the directions, if such existed. Unfortunately they didn't. The finger-post, neglected and weather-beaten, was devoid of wording.
"There's a map in that case," observed the doctor. "Would you mind getting it out? We'll soon see where we are."
The map was worse than useless. It was a delusion and a snare, for nowhere within ten miles of where the car was supposed to be was a fork road shown.
"What's wrong?" enquired the A.P. from the rear of the car.
"Out of our bearings. Suppose you don't happen to have brought a compass?" said the sub. "Unless we are going in exactly the opposite direction to the right one, there's not a fork road anywhere about, according to this map."
"Don't forget I'm due at Ferncoombe tonight," sung out Mr. Greenwood jocularly. "Now, Cardyke, get a move on."
Thus rallied, the doctor took the plunge. He restarted the car and followed the right-hand road, arguing with himself that it must lead somewhere, and that the fog wouldn't be so thick when clear of the moors.
An hour passed. The car had covered certainly not more than four miles. The doctor was showing signs of the severe strain it imposed upon his vision and mental powers, but tactfully refusing Tressidar's offer to drive, he stuck gamely to the steering-wheel.
It was now getting dark—and the doctor never drove at night unless it could not be avoided, and then only on roads with which he was well acquainted. With the decline of day the fog lifted slightly, and showed promise of dispersing.
Having stopped to light the lamps—merely a matter of complying with the law, since the obscured glasses gave hardly any illumination, certainly not enough to enable the occupants of the car to avoid an obstruction in time—the tedious journey was resumed, but at a slightly increased speed.
"Now I think I know where we are," declared the doctor; but the next moment he found out his mistake, for the car was on the point of charging a flock of sheep.
A turn of the steering-wheel did the trick. Missing the foremost sheep by inches, the car mounted a slight bank by the roadside and commenced to slide down the steeply shelving slope of a deep valley.
The doctor shoved on the brakes. Although the wheels were locked and the momentum retarded, the car continued its involuntary glide. Then Tressidar had a vague impression that he was flying through the air, and the next thing he knew was that he was sitting in a most aggressive gorse-bush.
CHAPTER XXVIII
—AND A NIGHT
Tressidar extricated himself from his uncomfortable position. Although considerably shaken, he was practically unhurt. His first thoughts upon realising that there had been a smash was for the other former occupants of the car. Some distance from and well above him the dimmed light of one of the lamps still flickered. The other had been extinguished, either by the sudden jolt or owing to the glass being fractured. He could distinguish the voices of Doris and Norah and the mild expostulation of Mr. Greenwood to the accompaniment of the bark of the Irish terrier.
He started to ascend the incline. It was so steep that he wondered why the car had not crashed to the bottom of the valley instead of lodging a mere thirty or forty feet below the road.
Before he had taken half a dozen steps his foot came in contact with a human body. It was Dr. Cardyke, still gripping the steering-wheel. The impact had snapped the steering-column like a carrot, and the doctor, describing a parabola over the shattered screen, had carried the wheel with him.
"Hurt?" enquired the sub. anxiously.
"No, only meditating," replied the imperturbable doctor. "I'll be all right in a few minutes. See to the others, please."
The two girls and the A.P. had already alighted, more or less gracefully, while Greenwood senior was wedged in between the seat and the sadly depleted hamper. All had come off lightly, but not so the car.
Its downward career had been stopped by a large boulder. The force of the impact had telescoped the fore part. The front wheels were shattered, the chassis splintered. As a car its days were ended.
"Where's Cardyke?" enquired Mr. Greenwood as he was being extricated from the wreckage.
"Nursing the steering-wheel," replied Tressidar. "He says he isn't hurt."
"Neither am I," added the doctor, who, having regained his feet, was toiling up the slope. "Sorry I landed you all in this pickle. Greenwood, I'm afraid your Ferncoombe Reservoir business is off."
"Not if I know it," resolutely replied the member of the National Guard. "I'll get there, even if I have to tramp it."
"What's the programme, sir?" enquired Tressidar, who, after having found a derelict cushion for the girls, was surveying the wreckage in the dim glimmer of the expiring lamp.
"We'll try to reach the nearest village and find a conveyance," replied the doctor. "It can't be very far. We must be almost on the edge of the moors, although I find I was mistaken just now. I certainly don't remember this place."
"May as well leave everything ship-shape as far as possible," suggested Eric. "My word, what an escape we've had!"
All hands set to work to retrieve the scattered articles. Cushions, portions of the mechanism, fishing-rods, Mr. Greenwood's rifle, the clock and speedometer and a number of other articles were picked up at varying distances from the wrecked car, some having rolled far down the valley. These were placed for safety in the car.
"By Jove, sir!" exclaimed Tressidar. "How many clocks do you carry? I've already found three."
"Three?" echoed the doctor. "Never."
"I'll prove it," continued the sub., leaning over the side door and groping for the floor of the car. This he failed to find, for the simple reason that it no longer existed. Instead was a gaping cavity through which the retrieved articles rolled out as fast as they were stowed away.
Just then the terrier gave a bark.
"Quiet!" ordered Doris. "Quiet, Mike!"
"There's someone coming," declared Eric. "Sounds like a horse and cart."
"Then, thank goodness, we'll be able to find out where we are," added Mr. Greenwood, as the whole party scaled the bank and waited in the road for the approaching vehicle.
It proved to be a pony-trap driven by a very stout farmer. The latter, recovering from his astonishment at being hailed in this out-of-the-way place, informed the doctor that they were four miles from the nearest house, five from the nearest village, and twelve from a railway-station.
"Any motor-cars to be had in the village?" asked Dr. Cardyke. "We've had a bad smash."
"Yes, there be a car o' sorts, zurr," replied the man, laying stress upon the "o' sorts." "Maybe you'll be wantin' oi' tu ax the moty tu fetch you?"
"If you would," said the doctor, "we'll be most obliged. I suppose we can rely upon it being sent?"
"You can rely on oi, zurr, tu giv' the message," was the countryman's non-committal reply, and, overcoming his curiosity to alight and examine the wrecked car, he touched the pony with his whip and drove off.
"Five miles," commented the doctor. "It will take at least an hour before the car arrives. Let's make ourselves as comfortable as possible in the circumstances. Has anyone a match?"
After another twenty minutes the conversation flagged. Everyone was more or less tired, after the day spent in the bracing air.
Presently Mike began to show signs of uneasiness, straining at his collar, through which his mistress had slipped her fingers.
"He smells a rabbit, I think," suggested Tressidar.
"Yes, and if I let him go he may not return for hours. I know him when rabbits are about," replied Doris. "Hold him, Ronald; he's tugging awfully hard."
The sub. did so, at the same time encircling the terrier's muzzle with his left hand. For the time being Mike was silent.
Stealthy footsteps could be heard on the stony road. These were the sounds that had aroused the dog, who had detected them long before the rest of the party.
With a sudden, furious twist Mike broke away from Tressidar's grasp and darted off through the darkness, in spite of insistent calls for him to come to heel.
"Dash it all, Doris!" exclaimed her father. "The brute will frighten the man into fits. If I have to pay for any damage, I'll have the animal dest——"
His threat regarding Mike's future was interrupted by a yell, followed by an oath—and the oath was uttered in unmistakable German.
"That's good enough for us, old man!" exclaimed Tressidar to the A.P. "Come along. Let's see who the Hun is."
The two officers gained the road and made their way swiftly in the direction of the indiscreet stranger, who was now having a battle royal with the terrier. On hearing footsteps approaching, he bawled,
"Call off your dog, will you? If you don't I'll——"
The words trailed off into another yell, as Mike nipped a piece out of the fellow's trousers, together with a square inch of adipose tissue.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Tressidar. "It's Jorkler."
The A.P. knew the name perfectly well. He remembered that a Jorkler was reported killed on the occasion of the loss of the "Pompey"; but he was unaware that his real name was Oberfurst and that he was a spy. Tressidar had kept his promise to the rear-admiral in that respect, but now arose the necessity for explanation.
"He's a spy," he said hurriedly. "Take care, he may be armed."
"Not likely," replied the A.P. "If he were, he would have potted the tyke by this time."
Almost before he was aware of it, Tressidar was upon the man. Oberfurst, having ascended a slight bank on the opposite side of the road, was kicking at the terrier, who with canine insistence was striving to get an opening and remove another patch of the German's clothes.
"We've got you, Oberfurst," exclaimed Tressidar. "There are four of us."
The spy recognised the sub.'s voice. Sheer astonishment on being confronted in that remote part of Dartmoor by a man whom he imagined was still interned in Denmark "took the wind out of his sails." Mike, seeing the advantage, leapt forward, only to be hurled backward by a powerful kick of the German's boot.
Simultaneously Tressidar and the A.P. threw themselves upon the spy, but they had not taken into account the slippery state of the ground owing to the heavy mist. Eric, his feet sliding from under him, fell on his face across the body of the still yelping Mike. The sub., adopting Rugby tactics, tackled his man low, but was unable to secure a hold.
In a trice the spy broke away and ran swiftly along the stony road in the direction of the doctor and the rest of the party.
Too late did Oberfurst make the discovery that there were more than two adversaries, for Dr. Cardyke and Greenwood senior gamely sought to bar the German's way.
At the first alarm Mr. Greenwood had seized his rifle. True, he had no cartridges; perhaps for his son's and Tressidar's safety it was as well that he had not.
The doctor, being slightly in advance of his friend, received the brunt of the second phase of the night operations, for the spy, using his feet in the approved Continental style, kicked Cardyke on his left knee, at the same time gripping the doctor's arm.
Then it was that Oberfurst met his Waterloo, for his palm came in contact with the formidable array of fish-hooks that the doctor still kept in his coat-sleeve. Uttering a yell as the barbs lacerated his flesh, the spy again attempted to break away. As he did so, Greenwood senior prodded him in the ribs with the butt-end of his rifle and stretched him out breathless on the road, just as Tressidar and the A.P. again appeared upon the scene.
Otto Oberfurst had been far from inactive since the "Nordby" incident. Having given the Danish skipper the slip, the spy made his way to Aarhuus, whence, having obtained false papers, he posed as a British mercantile seaman whose vessel had been mined in the North Sea.
It was his intention to return to Great Britain with the least possible delay and resume his nefarious operations. For two reasons: firstly, that he thought it unlikely that the British authorities would suspect his presence after what had occurred. The very audacity of his plan would tend to put them off the scent. Secondly, he knew full well that the Head of the German Secret Service would not overlook his blunder unless he promptly outweighed his error by a brilliant coup.
Accordingly he landed at Hull, and before twenty-four hours had elapsed was within an ace of destroying a munitions factory. Foiled, he went south, and, by blowing up two unguarded railway tunnels, delayed important movement of troops on the way to Flanders. Here, again, it was only by a sheer fluke that the troop train was not derailed.
In due course accounts of the demolished tunnels appeared in the Press, with the suggestion that the disasters had been caused by subsidences after the heavy rains, and thus public apprehension was allayed.
Having reported himself to his chief, von Schenck ordered him to the West of England to assist in the escape of three German officers from the detention camp, and to help them to cross to Ireland in readiness for a revolt of the Sinn Feiners. Already the German authorities were in full possession of the knowledge that an armed rising was imminent in Ireland, and in addition to arms being conveyed thither in Hun ships disguised as neutral merchantmen, arrangements had been made for several German officers at present prisoners of war to join the insurgents.
In this West Country detention camp it was a matter of consummate ease to communicate with the imprisoned German officers. Many of the latter were on parole (although it is generally recognised that a Hun regards the breaking of his plighted word as a smart piece of work), and were permitted to go freely into the neighbouring town on two days a week. They were also allowed to purchase English daily papers without the latter being examined when brought into the camp, and thus many a ciphered communication passed between the prisoners and their compatriots without.
Otto Oberfurst's method of getting into touch with the three Huns was simplicity itself. He would buy a daily paper and make a pinprick through those letters required to make up a word or sentence. Only by holding the paper up to the light could the minute holes be detected. Nor was it a difficult matter for the prisoners to obtain maps, pocket compasses, and small but powerful wire-cutters.
The next business was to arrange for the German officers to be taken across to Ireland. In view of the strict regulations governing the departure of British subjects from British ports, it was obviously a matter of almost impossibility to smuggle three young Teutons on board a ship lying in port. Oberfurst had thought of stealing a yacht from some unfrequented harbour, until he realised the risk of being caught by the vigilant patrols in the Bristol Channel and especially in the Irish Sea.
Eventually through an intermediary—he was too wily to negotiate direct—he arranged with the hyphenated American skipper of a Yankee tramp, that was shortly to leave Bristol for New York, to close with the North Devon coast in the vicinity of the unfrequented Hartland Point. The skipper was to heave-to and send a boat ashore at 3 a.m., and pick up the three fugitives.
Oberfurst left little to chance. A powerful motor-car took him from Exeter to a point four miles from the camp. He intended to proceed on foot to a prearranged rendezvous, await the German officers and walk with them for another four miles across the moors, and to pick up another car which was to convey the fugitives to within a short distance of the coast.
Unfortunately for him, on leaving the first car he had followed the road by which Tressidar and his companions were keeping their weary vigil, and now he was a prisoner.
In the event of his plans going awry, he had firmly decided not to be taken alive. At the same time he would make a desperate bid for freedom before proceeding to the last extremity. In this resolve he was thwarted. The intense pain of the laceration of his hand by the fish-hooks, quickly followed by Mr. Greenwood's drastic and effectual action, had completed his discomfiture before he realised that the game was up.
"Now, my fine bird," thought Tressidar as he surveyed his captive, "I'll take good care you don't slip through our fingers this time."
The spy made no movement, nor did he speak a word. Lying on the ground with his legs and arms tied and Mr. Greenwood proudly mounting guard over him, he looked helpless enough; but the sub. knew his man and took no risks. He stood by, ready at the first suspicious movement to act promptly and effectually.
At length the expected motor-car arrived. At the very most it could accommodate five, not including the chauffeur. Here, indeed, was a puzzle. Someone had to be left behind. Mr. Greenwood was on his honour to turn up at the reservoir for guard duties. Tressidar and the A.P. were necessary, being the only active male members of the party, to guard the spy, who could not very well be placed in the seat alongside the chauffeur. Doris and Norah could not be left behind, nor was it desirable for them to be in close proximity to the Hun. Dr. Cardyke was beginning to feel the effects of his tumble, and, taking in consideration his age, it was unwise to leave him exposed to the cold night air longer than could be avoided.
"Then Eric and I will remain with our old pal Oberfurst," said Tressidar. "The rest of you carry on. Don't wait if you find a train at the station. The car can come back for us. How about the wreckage, doctor?"
"Can stop," decided Dr. Cardyke firmly. "I've done with the thing. I'll send a cart in the morning to collect the luggage and things that are of value. Well, good-bye, Tressidar, Wish you luck with your capture."
The car, a wheezy, American-built one, started and was soon lost to sight and hearing in the darkness, while the two naval officers were left with their prisoner.
In an hour and a half the motor returned. Oberfurst, offering no resistance, was placed therein, Tressidar and the A.P. sitting on the seat facing him and keeping a watch on every movement.
Without incident the spy and his escort arrived at the little village. Here Oberfurst was handed over to the care of the local constabulary, the police-sergeant having been cautioned concerning the desperate character of the prisoner. The last train having gone, Tressidar and Eric were obliged to engage the chauffeur to drive home. After a tedious journey they reached the Greenwoods' house to find that the girls had not arrived, and that Mrs Greenwood was in a state of great nervous anxiety.
To make matters worse, two telegrams were awaiting the sub. and the A.P. The former's had been forwarded from his home in Cornwall. Both were of the same nature:
"Report for instant duty at Naval Barracks, Devonport—urgent."