CHAPTER XVI
"Crashed"
Peter had barely resumed charge, when the motors coughed and stopped. A deadly silence succeeded the purr of the engines, since the rush of air past the metal planes was inaudible within the sound-proof compartment.
It was the pilot's chief concern to keep the flying-boat up as long as possible. It was entirely beyond reason to suppose that the gliding would be prolonged till dawn, but the longer the aircraft kept up the better, since there would be more time to make preparations for the forced landing.
Planing as nearly in a horizontal direction as possible for two minutes, was followed by a short steep rise until the flying-boat seemed in danger of "stalling". This manoeuvre Peter repeated, knowing that for every hundred feet of vertical drop he could knock off twenty or more by the sudden leap against gravity.
For quite twenty minutes he held on, his hand dexterously manipulating the controls, while his eyes never left the altimeter and speed-indicator.
Meanwhile, Brian Strong was busy. Realizing that perhaps the flying-boat might be able to land on fairly even ground, he set about to prepare the electric head-lamp which could be trained in a vertical arc of fifteen degrees—enough to illuminate a sufficient length of ground before the machine came in contact with terra firma.
The searchlight was of the accumulator type. According to instructions issued to the Rioguayan airmen the batteries were to be kept fully charged; but when Brian tested the circuits he found that the accumulators had completely run down.
There remained the secondary head-lamp—a three-hundred candle-power acetylene-generated light.
Hoping against hope that this apparatus was in working order, Brian unfastened the lid of the generator. The acetylene chamber was full of perfectly dry carbide, but the water compartment was empty.
"How long can you give me?" asked Uncle Brian.
"Five minutes—ten, with luck," was the reply.
Hurrying to the water-tank, Brian turned the tap. There was no flow.
"Has every tank in this confounded contraption run dry?" demanded Brian. Then the solution of the mystery dawned upon him. The water in the tank was frozen into a solid block.
Had the motors been water-cooled a way out of the difficulty would have been simple; but being air-cooled no help was forthcoming from them.
Seizing a spanner, Uncle Brian vigorously attacked the six nuts securing the circular plate on the top of the water-tank. The cover removed, he hacked at the ice until he was able to gather a double handful of chips of frozen water. These he placed in a can and held them over the still warm cylinders of one of the motors until the vessel contained about a pint of fluid.
"Look sharp!" shouted Peter. "We can't be much more than a thousand feet up."
Working feverishly, Brian poured the water into the generator, turned on the needle-valve to its fullest extent, and applied a match to the triple fish-tail burners. With a mild explosion the gas ignited, and the powerful beam flashed out into the night.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peter, aghast, for the bright white light was playing on a solid substance less than four hundred yards away—the steeply rising face of a formidable mountain peak. Only a few seconds separated the flying-boat from an end-on crash.
Putting the vertical rudders hard over, Peter literally jerked the machine round, tilting her to an angle of nearly sixty degrees as he did so.
Unprepared, Uncle Brian lost his balance and fell violently against the lee-side of the compartment. Before he could regain his feet, the flying-boat pancaked and crashed.
Peter had a brief vision of the nose crumpling up and the under-carriage being forced through the steel floor of the fuselage. Then the long slender body rose until the tail was almost vertical. The pilot, hurled against the instrument-board, lost all interest in the immediately subsequent proceedings.
Brian Strong came off fairly lightly.
Owing to the circumstance that he was lying inertly upon the floor—for after his first attempt to rise he had philosophically abandoned further effort—he had escaped being flung headlong against the bulkhead. As it was, he found himself lying on the ground with wreckage on either side of him—while within two yards of his feet were the remains of the acetylene head-light, with a flare of vivid white light leaping twenty feet into the air.
"Never did think much of those acetylene lamps," he remarked to himself, and tried to puzzle out by what means he found himself where he was.
It was indeed fortunate that the fuel supply of the flying-boat—there were about twenty gallons in the lowermost tank—was non-inflammable when released from pressure; had it been ordinary petrol the wreckage would have been a mass of molten metal and the two airmen would have been burnt to ashes.
Still muttering incoherently, Uncle Brian sat up and rubbed his head vigorously.
"Where am I?" he demanded.
He dug his hands into the ground. It was fine sand. He sniffed at it, half expecting to find it salt like the sand of the seashore.
Still puzzled, he watched the strongly-burning acetylene until the glare was too much for his eyes. He turned his head, but was unable to discern a single object.
Then he crawled, like a stricken animal, away from the light, until a mass of twisted steel plating impeded his progress.
"There's been a most unholy smash," he declared solemnly.
Gradually coherent reasoning returned to him. Strangely enough he completely forgot that Peter had been with him in the crash. His chief thoughts were for the safety of the essential parts of the secret-ray apparatus. Those placed in a locker in the flying-boat were probably smashed, but there remained the most important object of all—the delicate valve which he had hidden in an empty cartridge case.
Almost feverishly he tore open his leather greatcoat and felt for the cartridge-belt that had been his constant companion from the time he left El Toro. With trembling fingers he extracted the small glass phial and held it up to the light. Then he gave a gulp of relief and satisfaction. The delicate filament and the minute and complex mechanism were intact.
"Hello, Uncle! Taking a blood test?"
Brian Strong turned at the sound of the well-known voice. Walking unsteadily towards him was Peter Corbold.
His nephew was still wearing his flying-coat and helmet, which he had put on merely for the sake of warmth. The coat was rent in half a dozen places, while the left side of his face was red with blood welling from a cut on the forehead.
Peter's period of insensibility had been of short duration, Thrown clear of the wreckage after his impact with the instrument-board, he had got off with a nasty bruise on the forehead. The padded helmet had saved his skull from being fractured, but the blow had been sufficient to cause the blood to flow freely. His head was whirling, he felt horribly sick and as weak as a kitten, yet he could not repress a facetious remark upon seeing his relative so absorbed in his precious invention.
"We're here," continued Peter. "But where, goodness only knows. What's your damage, Uncle Brian? Wasn't it a jolly old crash? It reminds me of a song we used to yell in the gun-room of the old Baffin: 'She bumped as she'd never bumped before.'"
"And never will again," added Uncle Brian with emphasis. "What's to be done now?"
"Sleep till the morning," replied the practical Peter. "My head's buzzing like a top. There's a chunk of the old 'bus that will make quite a decent bunk. I vote we turn in."
Eight hours later Peter awoke to find the sun shining brightly. His headache had vanished and—good sign—he felt ravenously and healthily hungry.
Uncle Brian was still sleeping soundly. Peter let him sleep. It would give him an opportunity to take stock of the locality.
Throwing off his blankets and greatcoat, for the heat of the sun was oppressive, Peter emerged from his retreat and stood blinking in amazement in the dazzling light—sheer amazement at their marvellous escape.
The wrecked flying-boat was practically in the centre of a circular patch of sand and gravel about three-quarters of a mile in diameter. On all sides rose rugged mountains with precipitous faces in places rising sheer to a height of at least two thousand feet.
The plain was almost dead level and absolutely destitute of verdure. No sign of life was visible. The flying-boat had struck a snag in the form of a mass of rock about four feet in height and less than a couple of yards in circumference. Otherwise, the sandy waste was free from irregularities. It would have been an ideal landing-ground, for the sand was fairly hard; and it was certainly a case of sheer hard luck that the machine should have wrecked herself on the only dangerous bit of ground in the extensive circle.
On the other hand, it was a rare slice of good fortune that had accompanied the flying-boat on her downward glide. She must have skimmed the summit of the encircling mountains with but a few feet to spare. In the darkness Peter had been in entire ignorance of the danger. Equally fortunate was the fact that the timely lighting of the acetylene head-lamp had enabled the pilot to escape crashing nose-on against the opposite wall of the huge basin of natural stone.
"We're here," decided Peter grimly. "We're here; but goodness only knows how we are going to get out. It's been a fine old smash-up. However, there's some consolation: the Rioguayan air fleet has lost one unit."
So severe had been the impact that both of the for'ard motors had broken away and lay quite fifteen yards from the crumpled bows. The after portion of the fuselage had broken off short, forming with the buckled 'midship part an irregular, inverted "V". Four of the subsidiary fuel tanks had completely parted company with the hull, while the steel water-tank had burst from its securing bonds and now rested bottom upwards upon the sand. The tank was practically intact, but, since Uncle Brian had not had time to replace the cover after chipping the ice, the precious contents had drained into the parched ground. The outstanding feature was the sight of the two rear propellers, both intact, standing up like flaming crosses as the sunlight glinted upon the polished metal blades.
"And we're a long way from the sea," exclaimed Peter aloud.
"Did I hear anyone say 'tea'?" inquired Uncle Brian, from the depths of his temporary sleeping compartment. "If so, many thanks."
"You didn't," replied his nephew. "There's nothing doin' in that line, I'm afraid. No water to be had."
"That's a rotten look-out," said Uncle Brian, as he emerged from his retreat. With his bruised features, torn clothing, and staggering gait, he looked more like a dissipated tramp than an engineering expert.
He glanced at the debris, then at the mountain barrier.
"The old horse jibbed at that fence, Peter," he added. "It'll mean padding the hoof for us, I fancy. Any grub going?"
Scrambling over a litter of steel sheets, Peter dived into the debris that remained of the 'midship part of the flying-boat. After hunting about for some time, he discovered the oddly assorted contents of the provision-room. He managed to rescue a couple of tins of pressed beef, a loaf made of maize, and a bottle of soda water—the sole survivor of nearly four dozen.
"Enough here for the present," he announced, as he crawled out. "We shan't starve if we can carry enough away with us."
The frugal meal was eaten in silence. Uncle Brian produced a spirit flask, half filled with brandy. Pouring about a couple of tablespoonfuls of soda water into the metal cup, he handed it to his companion.
"Your liquid ration, Peter," he said solemnly. "We'll have to make it last out till we find water."
CHAPTER XVII
The Passage Perilous
No time was lost in making preparations for the long trek. Each man had to carry as much as he possibly could without impeding his movements. Uncle Brian took the remaining parts of the secret-ray apparatus, which he discovered lying in the sand undamaged and still in the haversack. The rest of his load consisted of a rifle and ammunition, a blanket and waterproof sheet, and about ten pounds of foodstuffs. Peter loaded himself up with his sleeping-bag, twenty pounds of provisions, the liquid compass from the flying-boat, a coil of light line, his automatic, matches, and—in anticipation of finding water—an empty water-bottle with slings attached.
"We shan't have to do very much climbing to get out of this," declared Uncle Brian. "And I shall be very disappointed if we don't find water within an hour or two. At one time this place was a mountain lake. The water has drained away—where? Not through the sand, because it's a certainty that the bed of the lake was hard rock similar to the surrounding mountains. It flowed away through a canyon. If we find the canyon we find our way of escape."
Peter agreed, but up to the present there was not the slightest visible sign of a gorge. The enclosing wall of rock seemed continuous, without a rift lower than five hundred feet above the plain.
Progress was slow. The sand, although tolerably firm, was hard going. The heat of the sun, coupled with the weight of their burdens, distressed both men severely.
Presently they came to a shallow depression resembling a North American gulch or a South African drift, only bone-dry. At one time it had been a watercourse. The bed was littered with small stones.
Uncle Brian stooped, picked up one of the rough pebbles, and examined it.
"Would you like to be rich beyond the dreams of avarice, Peter?" he asked. "If so, load up. These are rough diamonds."
His nephew looked incredulous. He half suspected that the sun, following the concussion of the crash, had affected his uncle's brain.
"Fact," continued Brian Strong. "The quantity of diamonds here would make the De Beer's reserve look silly in comparison. We'll take a few—just a few—to support our statement, should we be lucky enough to come through. Personally, I'd rather have a pint of pure water at the present time.... Enough, Peter! Don't sacrifice mobility to cupidity. Later on, perhaps."
In his present state of mind, Peter, once he was convinced of the sincerity of his uncle's announcement, was not greatly impressed by the magnitude of the discovery. The mere fact that untold wealth lay at his feet was as nothing compared with his anxiety to get clear of the mountain-enclosed arena. He hardly doubted his ability to find a way out; but it was the long and tedious tramp that rather appalled him. The change from speedy flying to a trudge afoot at two and a half miles an hour, when time was of the utmost importance, was a disconcerting prospect.
"There's an outlet," declared Uncle Brian, pointing to a bluff that even at a short distance merged into the sombre greyness of the mountainous wall. "We'll find a gorge close to it."
"Let's hope so," added Peter.
"There must be some egress," continued Uncle Brian. "At some time—centuries ago—when this place was a lake—the overflow escaped in a northerly direction. Why? Because to the south'ard are the Sierras, which form a watershed between Rioguay and Venezuelan territory. For some reason—an earthquake, most likely—the feeders dried up or were diverted. Consequently, the lake ran dry. Yes, here we are."
The cleft was so narrow that there was barely room for the two men to walk abreast. The walls, up to a height of thirty feet, were quite smooth, bearing evidence of the friction of sand and water for countless ages. Above that height they were rugged and irregular, so that in many places the sky was completely shut out from view.
For nearly a hundred yards they progressed with tolerable ease. Then the gorge contracted to such an extent that Peter's broad shoulders were rubbing against either wall. Once or twice he had to turn sideways and drag his pack after him.
"Hope it isn't going to be a blind alley!" he exclaimed.
"Never fear," declared Uncle Brian encouragingly. "The floor is on the down-grade all the time. That's a sure indication that——"
"We're done this trip!" interrupted his nephew. "There's been a fall of rock."
In the subdued light the defile appeared to terminate abruptly in a barrier of enormous stones, some of which must have weighed at least a thousand tons, rising to quite seventy feet.
"Fallen recently," commented Peter. "By Jove! If there's another smash-up, we'll either be flattened out, or trapped. Let's go back!"
Uncle Brian deliberately unburdened himself of his load.
"Let me get past you," he said. "Before we talk of going back, I'll make a brief examination. H'm, yes! Recent fall, eh? You're wrong, Peter. That mass of rock probably subsided a thousand years ago. The dryness of the atmosphere accounts for the fresh-looking stone."
"Possibly," rejoined Peter, "but that isn't of much consequence to us, is it? It doesn't make our job any easier. I might be able to scramble up and lower the rope for you."
"No climbing for me, thank you," replied his uncle. "I'm going to crawl under."
He pointed to a small cavity, barely two feet in height and triangular in section, between two masses of stone inclined one to the other.
"You can't possibly," began Peter.
"Can't I?" retorted his uncle. "Wait till we shift some of the sand. It may be ten feet deep, but it has accumulated since this rock fell. The stone is quite smooth.... Just come here a minute and kneel down. I fancied I saw daylight; do you?"
Peter looked through the narrow tunnel. Sure enough, at about fifty feet away, he could discern the farther end of the horizontal shaft.
"No need to dig," he declared. "Stand by. I'll crawl through and pay out the rope."
It was a nerve-racking experience. Notwithstanding Uncle Brian's assurance as to the well-established nature of the barrier, Peter was haunted by the dread that the wall of the tunnel might subside; and when about half-way through, he had grave doubts whether he could wriggle past a particularly narrow section. At any rate, there he was. He could not turn to crawl back. He simply had to go on, or get stuck.
With his heart figuratively in his mouth, the perspiration pouring down his face, his hands and knees raw with the friction of the sand, Peter continued his way, turning on his side in order to negotiate a couple of narrow places where the rocks protruded.
"Worse than the double bottoms of a battleship, any old time," he soliloquized. "Now, if I butt into a particularly venomous snake at the far end—that will be the limit!"
At length Peter emerged from the tunnel, rose to his feet, and drew in a copious draught of fresh air.
"Through!" he shouted.
"Right-o!" sang out his uncle. "Steady on while I finish with the gear.... Now then, haul away!"
Peter began to haul in the line. It was heavy work, for at the other end was attached the baggage belonging to both men, Brian Strong's haversack with its precious contents being secured for safety within the folds of the blankets and sleeping-bag.
"Good thing the rope's new," thought Peter, carefully coiling away the line as he hauled it in. "If it did part half-way through there'd be a fine old lash-up!"
Presently an increased tension of the rope announced that the load was passing the narrowest part of the tunnel, which was about fifteen feet from the end. Then there was a sudden jam. Something had fouled, and the whole of the gear was wedged tightly, forming a formidable barrier between Peter and his relative.
In vain the former heaved and hauled. He could hear Uncle Brian plaintively inquiring when he would be able to crawl through.
"There's no help for it," decided Peter. "I'll have to go in again and clear the lash-up."
He did not relish the task, but it had to be done. The journey through had been bad enough, but now, although the distance was much shorter, he was additionally hampered by the fact that he was working in utter darkness and that the baggage, filling the height and breadth of the tunnel, considerably interfered with the air supply.
Peter realized the possibility of having to cast off the rope and remove each bundle separately—a task entailing at least half a dozen trips into the shaft.
Fortunately this was spared him; for on feeling cautiously, he discovered the cause of the "block". The rifle had come unhitched and, swinging round until the muzzle caught the projecting rock, had jammed the whole contraption. It was a fairly simple matter to release the rifle and drag it into the open. Then the rest of the gear was hauled out with comparative ease.
"All clear," shouted Peter again.
Brian Strong made the passage quickly and easily. As a mining engineer, he was used to crawling through narrow passages. Had it been a case of making their way aloft to the fire-control platform of a battleship in a heavy sea-way, Peter would have won easily; but as a tunnel crawler, he admitted unhesitatingly that he did not shine.
For the next mile, it was fairly easy going. The floor of the ravine was wider, but the height of the walls correspondingly higher. Here and there were pieces of rock that had become dislodged and had fallen, half buried in the sand. Once a stone as big as a man's head came hurtling down within twenty paces of them.
The end of the chasm was now in sight, but they were not yet out of danger or difficulty. At about four hundred yards from the end their progress was arrested by a single slab of rock about ten feet in height that completely obstructed the passage.
This time there was no tunnel. The only way was to climb over.
"I'll give you a leg up, Uncle," suggested Peter. "Then I'll send up the gear and swarm up by the rope."
He took up his stand close to the rock and was about to bend down to enable Uncle Brian to clamber on his back, when his boot came in contact with something hard, buried a few inches under the sand. As he trod on it, it gave with a rasping sound.
"Hello!" he exclaimed. "What's this?"
With the toe of his boot, he pushed aside the covering layer of sand, revealing a rusty breast-plate. Grasping the metal, he pulled it up. It came quite easily, disclosing a number of human bones lying on the backpiece of a suit of mail. A short distance away was a steel morion, together with fragments of a skull.
The discovery roused Peter's interest far more than had the sight of the diamond-studded sand.
"We're not the first people to find the gorge," he remarked. "How old is this, do you think, Uncle?"
"Seventeenth century or late sixteenth," replied Brian Strong. "The lace-holes in the breast-plate prove that. A Spaniard, I should imagine. He was crushed by the rock. I don't suppose he was alone. We may have walked over the bodies of his comrades buried underneath the sand."
"It would be interesting to know——" began Peter, then he broke off suddenly, adding, "Come on, let's get clear of this rotten hole as fast as we can."
Half an hour later, they emerged from the canyon. Ahead stretched a seemingly endless expanse of trackless forest; behind them, the mountains.
"There's bound to be water down there," said Brian. "And if there's water, there's a stream. The stream becomes a river, and the river flows into the sea—in our case, the Caribbean. We'll have to skirt the fringe of the forest until we strike a stream."
This reasoning proved to be sound. It was not long before they came across a small rivulet gushing from the hillside.
This they followed, noting with satisfaction that it grew steadily in volume. For four days they kept to one of its banks, sometimes cutting a way through dense undergrowth, at others wading in the clear shallow stream. Wild animals they neither heard nor saw. Several times they had narrow escapes from poisonous reptiles. At night they were tormented by mosquitoes; by day they were almost knocked out by the moist, enervating heat. Their clothing was in rags, their boots cut almost to ribbons.
Yet they held doggedly on their way, living on short rations and sustained by the hope that every step brought them nearer to the sea, though there were no signs of approaching the outskirts of the forest.
On the fifth day, both men felt utterly done up. Too exhausted even to speak, they plodded on, until their progress was arrested by the stream flowing into a wide river, literally alive with caymans.
"Voices!" exclaimed Peter.
Both men listened intently.
Brian Strong shook his head.
"Imagination!" he replied briefly.
"'Fraid you're right," rejoined his companion disconsolately, but seized with an inspiration, he drew his automatic and fired two shots into the air.
A few minutes later, a dug-out canoe, manned by a dozen Indians, appeared round the bend of the river.
CHAPTER XVIII
Orders for Cavendish
"Commander wishes to see you, sir!" Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere Cavendish—affectionately known to his brother-officers as "Weeds" and known to have answered readily to the sobriquet "Plug"—acknowledged the marine orderly's announcement.
Cavendish was in a shore-billet—the Royal Naval Barracks at Portsmouth—having just completed a gunnery course at Whale Island. He was speculating upon what manner of craft his next ship would be. He rather fancied a destroyer, but would have been in no way surprised or disappointed if he were appointed to a light cruiser. He was not particularly keen on a battleship. That meant a two-years commission either in home waters or in the Mediterranean—and already, in his comparatively brief career, he had seen enough of Malta and Gib. to express a wish never to see either place again.
Life on a battleship in peace-time, he reflected, was apt to savour of boredom; on a destroyer there were discomforts, but on the whole there were compensations. It gave a fellow a chance to do something that would be impossible on a capital ship. A sub on a destroyer was a responsible person; on a battleship, he was one of a crowd.
For another reason, he was not altogether certain that he had done well in the gunnery course; but he did know that he had obtained a "first" in the torpedo course.
Cavendish unshipped his legs from the messroom fender, threw the morning's paper on the settee, and, after exchanging a jest with some of the other occupants, made his way to the commander's office.
The marine orderly had given no indication of the reason for the interview. It was more than likely that he did not know. That left Cavendish speculating as to the possible reason for the "Bloke's" wish to see him. As far as he knew, there was nothing "up against" him.
Discreetly he knocked at the door of the commander's private room.
Commander Broadstairs was a typical officer of the present-day navy—clean-shaven, alert both physically and mentally, and with a certain brusqueness of manner that at times might be mistaken for churlishness. On the quarter-deck, he would reduce a truculent defaulter to a state of panic by a mere look. On duty he was a living example of discipline and order, both spelt with a capital letter. He knew by heart the whole of the "Sailors' Bible"—the Admiralty Instructions. It was said that the men feared him more than they did the Commodore.
But when off duty, Commander Broadstairs' mantle of routine was shed. He was just an ordinary, jovial fellow—a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. His popularity was not of his own seeking; it was acquired simply by his personality.
"Come in!" he shouted breezily. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Cavendish. Take a seat."
He waved his hand in the direction of an arm-chair by the side of his large knee-hole desk.
The Sub sat down promptly enough. The fact that he, a very junior officer, had not been kept standing at attention, indicated the nature of the forthcoming interview. Probably it concerned the garrison sports, or the united services boxing tournament.
But Cavendish was well out of his reckoning.
"The Commodore has asked me to select a certain number of officers for a particular service," began the Commander. "It occurred to me that for various reasons you would be a suitable candidate. It is, of course, optional whether you accept or otherwise, since it is a matter requiring great discretion and involving a certain amount of risk, not to say danger."
The "Bloke" paused and fixed his eyes upon the young officer.
"Near East, for a dead cert," thought Cavendish, then aloud he said, "I'm quite ready, sir."
"You'd better wait until you've learnt more of the nature of the operations," resumed the Commander, with a wry smile. "Let me see; you served a commission in the South American station, I believe?"
"Yes, sir; midshipman on the Cyclex in 1921-2."
"You know the approaches to Bahia? And San Luiz? And Macapa? Good. Now, describe the anchorage off Port of Spain."
"Weeds" did so, evidently to the Commander's satisfaction.
"Do you know anything of the Rio Guaya?" continued his inquirer.
"No, sir," replied Cavendish promptly. "We never put in there during the whole of the commission. But——"
He paused, thinking that what he was about to say was irrelevant.
"But what?"
"I know a fellow living out in Rioguay, sir. An old shipmate of mine. He went on the beach from the Baffin."
"Name?"
"Peter Corbold, sir."
"H'm; name's familiar. Do you ever hear from him?"
"I had one letter, sir. I answered it—but I haven't heard since."
"What's he doing out there?"
"Mining engineering, I think, sir. He mentioned an uncle in the same profession who had been in Rioguay for some time."
The Commander started on another tack.
"The Admiralty have issued orders for the Cynesephon to be brought forward for commissioning," he announced.
Cavendish sat bolt upright in the chair. Now he was beginning to grasp the drift of things. Hitherto, he had been groping blindly, trying to piece together the baffling questions which the Commander had put to him, in a vain endeavour to discover the nature of the hazardous duty hinted at.
He knew the Cynesephon. She was one of the "P" boats that in 1918 had been converted into a "Q" ship and altered to resemble a South American freighter. She was supposed to be the last word in mystery ships, but an opportunity to use her never arrived, owing to the Armistice.
For certain reasons she had not been scrapped. She was now lying in one of the basins at Portsmouth Dockyard, snugly moored between two battleships of the Thunderer class, which were permanently out of commission.
And now the Cynesephon was to be rescued from the scrap heap and reconditioned—why?
Putting two and two together—the commissioning of the Cynesephon and the Commander's inquiries about Cavendish's service on the South American station—the Sub made a shrewd guess.
For several days there had been reports of British ships bound to and from Brazilian and Argentine ports being overdue. Several of them had been posted at Lloyd's as missing. At first, the general public hardly noticed the information, and until the Press gave prominence to the matter, few people outside the shipping circles had any idea of the persistent increase of the list of vessels overdue.
Then sprang up the usual crop of rumours—a pirate in the South Atlantic providing the favourite topic. Vessels of all nationalities had cleared South American ports and had made their various destinations. None of the masters had reported falling in with a suspicious craft; but it was an ominous fact that, without exception, the overdue vessels had sailed under the Red Ensign.
A question was raised in the House concerning the mysterious disappearance of so many ships, to which the First Lord made a reply that the Admiralty were considering the matter, but did not feel justified in sending H.M. ships, which were urgently required elsewhere, to investigate.
That reply was a "blind". Already orders had been issued for the secret commissioning of the Cynesephon and the dispatch of the light cruiser Basilikon and the 35-knot destroyers Messines and Armentières to the West Indies.
"It is in connection with the missing merchantmen, sir?" asked Cavendish.
"You are right on the target, Mr. Cavendish," said the Commander. "It is. The Cynesephon is to be fully manned by naval ratings, but the crew have to be disguised as merchant seamen. I need not emphasize the fact that this information is absolutely confidential. She will be detailed to cruise between Rio and Port of Spain in the hope that she will be mistaken for a cargo-boat. That is acting upon the supposition that there is a piratical vessel out. Personally, I think that some obscure South American republic has run amok. A light cruiser and a couple of destroyers will be within a hundred miles of the decoy ship, but you will understand that they will only be called to the Cynesephon's assistance if she is in immediate danger of foundering. There is a great chance of her being sunk with all hands before the supporting vessels can arrive on the spot. Now, I think I've hinted enough for you to realize the nature of the operations. Are you a volunteer?"
"I am, sir," was the ready response.
"I thought so," rejoined the Commander. "Here are the names of your new skipper and the officers who have already volunteered. You know most of them, I believe. Well, that's that. Use the greatest discretion. Remember, a chance word may wreck the whole business. And I don't think I'd write to Corbold again if I were you—at least, until you return."
The Commander held out his hand. Fifteen seconds later Sub-lieutenant Cavendish stood in the corridor, hardly able to realize his good fortune.
CHAPTER XIX
The Decoy Ship
That same afternoon, Sub-lieutenant Cavendish went on leave. That was the official version given out to his messmates. They saw him depart in a taxi, rigged out in mufti and with a prodigious amount of "kit" that suggested a "tidy drop o' leaf". Cavendish's home was in the Midlands, within a few miles of Grantham—but that was not his objective. Two hours later, he put up at a modest hotel in Southampton, patronized almost exclusively by Master Mariners of the Mercantile Marine.
The next day he joined the S.S. Complex at Southampton Docks as Third Officer.
The Complex was a tramp of 570 tons displacement, belonging to the port of Grimsby, if the information painted on her stern were correct. She was 230 feet in length. She had the usual raised fo'c'sle and poop, with deckhouses and bridge amidships just for'ard of her solitary funnel. Her fore- and mainmasts were of the "pole" type, with the customary appendages in the shape of derricks.
She was under orders for Buenos Ayres with a cargo consisting principally of cork.
The tramp resembled her kind in the matter of paint. Her sides were supposed to be black, but there were several irregular patches of red-lead, and broad streaks of iron rust. Her crew, rigged out in nondescript garments, were still stowing cargo. She had raised steam and the Blue Peter fluttered from the foremast head.
But, although her topsides were disreputable, the same could not be said of her hull below the waterline. The bottom had recently been coated with dull-grey anti-fouling composition, her owners being evidently of the opinion that it was false economy to pay for extra fuel simply to drive a barnacle-encrusted hull through the water.
Checking an almost irresistible impulse to salute the quarter-deck as he came over the gangway, Cavendish went aft to report to the "Old Man", who was standing at the head of the poop-ladder, rigged out in blue cloth trousers, waistcoat with tarnished brass buttons, and a cap bearing a salt-stained badge of a well-known shipping firm, perched awry on his close-cropped head. He was in his shirt sleeves. A very seasoned black briar pipe was between his strong, even teeth.
"Hello, Weeds!" exclaimed the Old Man; "so you fetched here all right? You'll find Seton and Carr down below. They'll tell you where your cabin is. 'Fraid you won't find it very ship-shape, old thing."
A sailor came slouching aft.
"Beg pardon, sir!" he announced with a pukka naval salute. "There's a Board of Trade chap come to see you."
Captain Meredith gave a gesture of annoyance. It was decidedly unhealthy to have too many officious shore-people on board.
"All right," he replied. "And look here, Johnson, can't you remember not to give salutes? Or must I send you back to the Depot?"
The man grinned and went off.
"That's one of my hardest jobs," commented the Old Man. "Trying to make an A.B. forget what has been drilled into him from the first day he joined at Shotley. And look here, Weeds, you're not a credit to the ship. Your rig-out is just a trifle too smart and too new. Try toning it down with a little tar."
Captain Meredith hurried off to interview the Board of Trade Inspector, leaving Cavendish to his own resources on the deck of the S.S. Complex.
Only the previous day the Complex had come out of Portsmouth Harbour as the Cynesepion. She had been hurriedly docked, her bottom cleaned and coated in less than six hours. Her armament, consisting of one 4.7, four 12-pounders, and a couple of 3-pounder high-angle guns, had in the dead of night been placed in their elaborately concealed mountings. Her holds and double-bottoms were packed tightly with cork; ammunition, stores, and oil fuel were placed on board, and with a naval crew, she was taken out of Portsmouth to the Motherbank, off Ryde.
Here the uniformed crew were taken off by a Government tug—leaving only twenty "hands" under a couple of officers to take the ship round to Southampton.
Almost their first act was to paint out the name Cynesephon and substitute that of Complex.
Cavendish went below. In the alley-way he encountered Robin Seton, whom, until that moment, Cavendish had imagined to be undergoing a course at "Whaley"—a "two and a half striper", now posing as the first officer of the tramp.
"Cheerio, George!" was Seton's greetings. "Now our little band of merry wreckers is complete. Seen Carr and Warrender? They're sculling around somewhere. My word!"
He stepped back and critically looked Cavendish up and down.
"My word!" he continued. "I've never seen such a smart-looking Third Mate before."
"So the Old Man remarked—or words to that effect," rejoined Cavendish, with a laugh. "No matter. Live and learn. Where did you pick up your rig-out?"
Seton held open his coat for inspection.
"Got kitted out in the Ditches for something like half a dozen Bradburys," he replied proudly. "Sent the gunner's mate along to make a deal. And he did. He knows the ropes."
Cavendish wished that he had known of the gunner's mate's capabilities in the wardrobe department. He had laid out over twenty-five pounds in an outfit that had already been twice remarked upon as being out of place. He quite agreed that the hardest part of the job was not to be smart, and to forget that he was an officer of the Royal Navy.
The Sub was shown his cabin. He reappeared twenty minutes later looking more his part.
The Complex was under way. She had just parted company with a fussy little tug that had coaxed, cajoled, pulled, and pushed her out of the Empress Dock. Southampton lay astern, the Weston Shelf buoy was broad on the port-beam, while ahead lay the wide stretch of Southampton Water, until it merged into the Solent beyond the airship sheds at Calshot Castle.
There was plenty of traffic, from gigantic ocean liners to steam-lighters and "spreeties"—low-lying barges with a generous spread of tanned canvas. Tramp steamers, topsail schooners, steam, motor, and sailing yachts, tugs, "hoppers", and fishing-smacks passed in endless procession, little knowing the venomous nature of the little Complex as she ploughed her way through the calm water at a modest nine knots.
It was Alec Carr, the navigator, who showed Cavendish round the ship. Carr, a burly, six feet two inch giant, hailing from North Berwick, was the man for that job. He, like the Captain, knew the ship from end to end, since both had served in a similar craft during the later stages of the Great War.
The transformation had been an astounding one. From a long, low-lying "P" boat, she had been altered into a very presentable tramp, looking at least of 1500 tons, although her actual displacement was little more than one-third of that tonnage. Yet she retained the speed and high manoeuvring qualities of her original role. She could work up to 23 knots when required, could turn almost in her own length and with the minimum of "tactical advance". She could go astern at 18 knots, while her nominal fuel capacity of 93 tons could be augmented sufficiently to give her a cruising distance of 4000 miles without replenishing her oil tanks.
For armament, she was adequately provided with weapons calculated to deal with anything short of a cruiser. The 4.7-inch gun was housed in the fore-hold, the gun and its mounting being raised when required by hydraulic pressure. On either side of the deck-house under the bridge was a 12-pounder, each concealed by a section of the dummy bulwarks, while by lowering two of the wings of the deck-house an arc of fire of 160° could be obtained. Two more were as skilfully concealed aft, while the 6-pounders were mounted in boats stowed on top of the deck-house abaft the mainmast. The boats were dummies, constructed to fall apart by means of hinges and quick-release gear.
In addition she carried four 14-inch torpedo tubes of the "submerged" type, and a couple of mortars for discharging depth charges at a range of two hundred yards.
The "P-boat's" original conning-tower was still in existence, although, owing to the new superstructure, its sphere of usefulness was considerably curtailed. Another had been built for'ard.
Cavendish walked right round the latter and never spotted it. Outwardly, nothing was to be seen but a big reel of wire hawser. The reel was a dummy, being actually the hood of the armoured conning-tower.
"See the idea?" inquired Carr. "If, by a bit of luck, we do fall in with a pirate, he'll start shelling the bridge. We found that with Fritz. Let him shell. There'll be no one there, and from this little box of tricks our skipper can keep an eye on him until he decides it's time to put him in his place—to wit, Davy Jones his locker."
"What's your opinion about the loss of these merchant vessels?" asked Cavendish.
Carr shook his head.
"Ask me another," he replied. "That's what we're sent to find out."
The Complex was now well down the Solent. Yarmouth(1) was on the port bow, Lymington to starboard, and the high light of Hurst right ahead, rising like a needle out of the sun-flecked water.
A light cruiser, with her distinguishing signals displayed and a commodore's broad pennant flying from the masthead, came pelting along, passing the decoy ship a cable's length to port. The Complex dipped her ragged, smoke-begrimed Red Ensign. Carr and Cavendish exchanged glances.
"I was expecting the 'Still' to sound," declared the former. "Wonder what Old Man Meredith thought of it all?"
As a matter of fact, Captain Meredith, D.S.O. (with bar), had almost given himself away, and his vessel as well, by ordering the strangely-garbed crew to attention. To deliberately ignore a commodore's broad pennant was the most trying experience he had had that day, which was saying a lot.
"Think we'll have any luck?" asked Cavendish, reverting to the burning topic of the hour—the hoped-for meeting with an as yet mythical pirate.
"Goodness knows," replied Carr. "I trust so. 'Tany rate, whether we're up against a submarine or a commerce destroyer, we'll give 'em a thundering good run for their money."
For the next few days, all hands were busily engaged in rehearsing for the forthcoming show. Every member of the crew took up his cue with zest, confident that should occasion arise they would play their part to the utmost satisfaction of the navy generally, and themselves in particular, and to the complete discomfiture of the enemy—whoever or whatever he might be.
The drills took two distinct forms. The first was that of countering an attack by a surface ship. In this case, with the exception of a few hands leaning idly over the bulwarks and a couple of officers on the bridge, the crew were at action stations and carefully hidden from external observation. Right aft, crouching in a steel shelter made to resemble a skylight, was a seaman holding the uncleated halliards of the ensign staff. It was his duty, on hearing the "action" gong, to strike the Red Ensign and substitute the White. Simultaneously, all gun-screens were to be lowered and every gun that could be trained on the target was to open fire, while below the waterline the L.T.O.'s stood by the torpedo tubes ready to launch the deadly missiles on an invisible objective; the direction of the "run" being governed by controls from the conning-tower.
Should the piratical craft turn out to be a submarine, the procedure was of an entirely different nature. The enemy might approach submerged and torpedo her prey. In that event, the "panic-party" would make a wild rush for the boats. One of the boats would be purposely lowered by one of the falls only, so that it would tumble bows on into the water. The "abandon ship" stunt would then be carried out, the men in the boats rowing desperately from the sinking ship.
"'Ere you—bow an' number three," bellowed the coxswain. "Stop grinnin'. You ain't a bloomin' picnic party. Look as if you was scared stiff. No! Don't for goodness' sake pull together. You ain't pullin' for the Squadron Cup. You're supposed to be goin' for dear life. Pull any'ow, as if Old Nick were in the perishin' boat."
The rest of the decoy ship's crew were at action stations, supposedly on a foundering vessel, although it was to be expected that even if torpedoed the Complex would keep afloat by reason of the "cargo" of cork. There, prone in their places of concealment, unable to see what was going on, they had to wait until the submarine appeared awash and on a suitable bearing for the guns to be brought into action.
If the submarine declined to investigate and the Complex was really sinking, there was nothing for the crew of the latter to do but to abandon ship in earnest and trust that a wireless message to the destroyers perhaps a hundred miles away would bring succour and perhaps retribution, should the lurking enemy be located by aerial observation from co-operating seaplanes.
Then, again, there was the chance of the submarine coming to the surface and shelling the Complex at long range. That was the most trying situation of all. The supposed tramp had to withhold her fire and take her gruelling without replying. The only thing to be done was to stop engines, start a fire on board, and, by flooding the for'ard water-tight compartments, give the impression that she was sinking by the bows. Then arose the question: would the submarine close sufficiently for the decoy ship's guns to bear and fire with fatal consequence to her foe? For the Complex to reveal herself as a formidably armed warship and at the same time to allow the submarine to get away, was the worst thing that could happen. To destroy was the Complex's mission; anything short of that meant failure—glorious failure, perhaps, but none the less futile.
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish's action station was by the two after 12-pounders, his duty being to keep the enemy under observation through a periscope. The latter was cleverly disguised as a galley-funnel. The post was a hazardous one—rather more than the rest. Since the Complex, if shelled by a submarine, had to simulate flight, the after part of the ship would bear the brunt of things. Then it was quite possible that the depth-charges might be exploded by shell-fire and blow the poop and everyone near it to smithereens. Cavendish had to admit, with a shivering sensation in the region of his spine, that Commander Broadstairs' hint of the dangerous nature of the mission for which the Sub had volunteered was by no means an exaggeration.