CHAPTER XX
Two Against One
Once clear of the "chops of the Channel" the Complex had increased her pace to a good eighteen knots. In due course, she arrived at the Bermudas and replenished her fuel tanks at the Admiralty yard—taking advantage of a privilege accorded to merchant vessels seeking assistance from Government resources.
The light cruiser Basilikon and her attendant destroyers Messines and Armentières had preceded her, and were lying off the town of Hamilton. They knew what she was, she knew what they were there for, but no sign of recognition passed between the rusty-sided tramp and her spick-and-span consorts.
Continuing her voyage, the Complex sighted nothing conspicuous. Without incident, she arrived at Bahia, where she received telegraphic orders from her imaginary owners to proceed to Savannah to unload.
Accordingly, she turned her head to the nor'ard, and, at a modest eight knots, proceeded to invite the as yet mythical pirate to "tread on the tail of her coat".
Several days passed. No calls from distressed vessels were received. Ships of all nations were passing on their lawful occasions without let or hindrance. Cape St. Roque, the north-easternmost point of Brazil, had been passed on the port hand, and a course shaped north-west by west to enable the decoy ship to keep within a hundred miles of the coast.
At one bell in the first Dog-watch on the day following, Cavendish, who was on duty as officer of the watch, heard the look-out report "vessel on the port bow, sir."
The Sub brought his binoculars to bear upon the vessel in question. She was quite five miles off and apparently on a course practically the same as that of the Complex.
In spite of the purposely slow speed of the latter, the Complex gained rapidly on the stranger, and presently Cavendish saw that she was not making way and that she was flying the N.C.—the international signal requesting immediate assistance. The glasses also revealed the information that the vessel was a tramp, flying the Red Ensign and bearing the name Holton Heath—London on her counter.
In response to a message from the officer of the watch, Captain Meredith was quickly on the bridge.
"No wireless from her?" inquired the owner.
"No, sir."
"H'm, that's remarkable, very. Action stations. We can't afford to take risks of this description.... Signalman?"
"Sir?"
"Stand by with the International Code flags," continued the Skipper. "Don't be too smart in making the hoists. Ask 'em what's wrong."
Stealthily the crew went to action stations, allowing no chance of their presence being visible to anyone on board the Holton Heath. Leaving Carr and Cavendish on the bridge, Meredith went below, made his way for'ard by means of the specially provided armoured alley-way, and gained the fo'c'sle conning-tower.
Meanwhile, the Holton Heath had made her number correctly and had given the information that her main-shaft had been broken. Could she be taken in tow?
Carr reported the request from voice tube to Captain Meredith.
"Round-to under her stern," ordered the Captain. "Don't hurry, I want to have a good look at her. Reply, 'I will take you in tow '."
The Complex was manoeuvred according to orders. Half a dozen hands went aft, ready to receive and secure the hawser to the towing-bitts. The Captain of the Holton Heath stepped to the starboard side of the bridge and waved an acknowledgment.
Presently Captain Meredith's voice-pipe whistle sounded.
"Ay, ay, sir," replied Cavendish.
"She seems jonnick," said the Skipper, in a somewhat disappointed tone. "We'll take her hawser. Pass the word for a hand to stand by the Senhouse slip, in case we want to cast off in a hurry."
The Sub leant over the bridge-rail to give the order to one of the deck-hands, when his eye caught sight of the wake of a torpedo rapidly approaching the now almost stationary Complex. It was coming, not from the Holton Heath, but from a submerged source broad on the Complex's beam.
Cavendish watched it like one in a trance. His parched throat refused to utter a warning. For days he had expected this to happen. He had hoped it would, and now, this being the first time that he had experienced the sight of a live torpedo approaching, he found that it was a totally different experience from watching a "tinfish" being discharged from the ship, and he was dumbfounded.
Too late he recalled the special orders given in anticipation of such an occurrence—orders which he and every other executive officer in the ship had countersigned—that in the event of a torpedo being sighted as fired from a submerged submarine, no effort was to be made to avoid the impact. On the other hand, the ship must be brought to meet it, so that the torpedo would strike anywhere except in the vicinity of the engine-room. In brief, the decoy ship was to sacrifice herself in the almost certain hope that, before she sank, the enemy would reveal himself and fall a victim to her guns.
Tardily, Cavendish jumped to the engine-room telegraph and rang for "easy astern". Before the order could be acted upon, the torpedo hit the Complex twenty feet abaft the bridge, against the starboard engine-room. There was a terrific report. A column of water was thrown violently into the air to a height of nearly two hundred feet, mingled with smoke, oil, and pieces of cork and shattered timber. The Complex heeled rapidly to port, then, recovering slightly, lay well over on her starboard side, and the engine- and boiler-rooms were flooded by the irresistible inrush of water.
In view of the suddenness of the attack, coming from a totally unexpected quarter, it would not have been surprising had the Complex unmasked her guns and thus revealed her identity.
But nothing of the sort happened. Not a man of the concealed crew started to his feet. Discipline—perfect order—prevailed; all on board, with the exception of three victims of the explosion who had already "slipped their cables", remaining alert, awaiting their Captain's orders.
Undoubtedly, it was a complex situation, and one for which no adequate provision had been made.
Cavendish, now that the explosion had taken place, was wondering what he ought to do. Should he order away the panic-party? If he did, they would be obliged, for appearance's sake, to make for the Holton Heath. But was she what she purported to be? Or was she acting in consort with the still unseen submarine?
"If," reasoned the Sub, "if she's a British merchantman, why did the submarine waste a torpedo on us when she had an easy victim of about three times our tonnage?"
Similar thoughts were flashing across the mind of the imperturbable Captain Meredith.
"Order away the panic party, officer of the watch," he shouted per voice-tube. For the present he would ignore the submarine and keep the Holton Heath under observation, he decided.
The latter vessel had swung round slightly, so that her starboard beam was exposed to the sinking Complex. On the bridge of the former, her captain was bellowing incoherent cries. A few hands were preparing to lower the quarter-boats.
Cavendish gave the order verbally. It would not do to trust to the prearranged system of gongs.
Instantly, there was a well-simulated panic-stricken rush for the Complex's boats, men falling over each other in their efforts to swing clear and lower away. Carrying out the lesson learnt at their rehearsals, they let one of the boats down by the head, staving in her gunwale against the listing side of the ship.
Suddenly, the supposed disabled Holton Heath underwent a transformation. Portions of her bulwarks dropped, revealing the muzzles of half a dozen quick-firers. Simultaneously, swarms of men appeared on deck to gloat over the anticipated spectacle, while several machine-guns were being placed in position with a view to mowing down the survivors of the helpless and foundering British ship.
There was now no doubt in the minds of the officers and men of the Complex who were in a position to see what was going on, of the manner in which so many craft flying the Red Ensign had vanished without a trace.
The Rioguayan crew were in no hurry. They prepared to prolong the business, before commencing a general and cold-blooded massacre. But on this occasion, the already sinking victim was to prove a very unpleasant surprise-packet.
Captain Meredith was quick to act. Alarm gongs rang out in all parts of the stricken ship. The panic-party, abandoning their role, threw themselves prone and began to wriggle their way to their appointed battle stations. The Red Ensign was hurriedly lowered, to be replaced by the emblem of British naval power.
Down clattered the gun-screens. Before the astonished and terrified Rioguayans could realize their mistake, the vengeful quick-firers took a heavy toll, receiving but one shell in reply—a 4-inch missile that whizzed harmlessly between the rigging.
The British gun-layers made one mistake. In their anxiety to settle with their treacherous foes, they aimed, not at the enemy's waterline, but at the dense mob on deck. There the havoc was beyond description.
Before the error could be corrected, the soi-disant S.S. Holton Heath had forged ahead, until she was end on to the bows of the Complex. The latter, stopped dead and unable to gather way, was sorely handicapped, for her 4.7-inch was masked by the rise of the fo'c'sle and the explosion of the torpedo had disarranged the training gear of the for'ard 12-pounder—the only gun that in ordinary circumstances could be brought to bear upon the fleeing vessel.
A triple-screwed cruiser disguised as a tramp, the Cerro Algarrobo—alias Holton Heath—was "legging it" at twenty-two knots, yet it was evident that, apart from the raking she had received, she had been hulled aft, since she was yawing badly. A 12-pounder shell had penetrated the submerged steering flat and had put the rudder out of action.
All need for concealment now at an end, Captain Meredith emerged from the fo'c'sle conning-tower and climbed the bridge-ladder.
By this time, the Complex had settled well down aft. Fumes and steam were still issuing from her engine-rooms. The acrid smell of burnt cordite still wafted from the unsecured guns.
The skipper had to make up his mind quickly—whether it were worth while pretending to abandon ship again and thus lure the submarine into rising to the surface, or to wireless for assistance.
He decided on the latter course. It might not be too late for the Messines and Armentières to stand in pursuit of the somewhat damaged Cerro Algarrobo. The seaplanes from the Basilikon might be able to spot the lurking submarine, if, as was likely, she continued to remain in the vicinity to make sure of the sinking of the Complex.
Accordingly, the wireless telegraphist began sending out an urgent signal to the Basilikon. The reply was prompt and to the point. The cruiser and her attendant destroyers were roughly seventy miles off. The Messines and Armentières were detached to proceed at full speed to the foundering decoy ship.
The Complex was in no immediate hurry to make her acquaintance with the bed of the Atlantic. Her cargo of cork and her elaborate system of water-tight bulkheads were playing their parts well. Those of the crew who were not at the guns were busily engaged in shoring up the bulkheads and endeavouring to pass a collision-mat over the gaping rent caused by the torpedo. The flooding of the boiler-rooms had automatically put out of action the mechanical bilge-pumps, but the hand-pumps, manned by the stokers of both watches, helped to delay the inevitable.
Meanwhile, the boats were lowered, each armed with a Lewis gun in the likely event of the submarine attempting to massacre the survivors. The wounded were transferred to one of the boats, the medical officer and sick-berth staff being in attendance.
Having taken all precautions, Captain Meredith and his crew could but await the end, whatever way it might turn out.
"Periscope right astern, sir," reported the Gunner. Hardly able to credit the good news, the skipper crossed to the port side of the bridge and looked. To his surprise and satisfaction, the submarine was within eighty yards of her victim. Her commander, judging that, as the stern of the Complex was almost awash, it was safe to make a periscopic view of the foundering vessel at short range, was in complete ignorance of the fact that the decoy ship still carried a most formidable sting in her tail. It might be that through inexperience he had misjudged his distance and had brought the submarine closer to the Complex than he thought.
Dead astern of the decoy-ship, he imagined himself to be safe. A Rioguayan invariably plays for "safety first". The two after 12-pounders could not be brought to bear astern. Even if they could, they could achieve nothing beyond demolishing one of the three periscopes with which the submarine was equipped. Twenty feet of water between the surface of the sea and the armoured back of the submarine would deflect any shell striking the water obliquely.
"Mr. Jones!" sang out Captain Meredith, "let her have it in the neck."
The warrant-officer signed to a couple of hands. Deftly and cautiously, the howitzers were loaded with their deadly depth-charges and trained to extreme elevations.
Both weapons were discharged simultaneously. The missiles rose with apparent slowness. Viewed from the bridge, they looked like enormous cricket-balls being lobbed by a titanic hand. Describing parabolic curves, they struck the water almost vertically—one on either side and about ten yards from the periscope. There was a double splash. The tip of the periscope was hidden in spray, but still there was no explosion. The depth-charges had to sink to a distance of thirty feet before they were automatically detonated.
Right aft, the Gunner was standing knee-deep in water, with a hand over his eyes as he watched. In vain the Skipper shouted to him to take cover. His interest in what was about to take place had rendered him deaf to every other sound.
Suddenly there was a stupendous upheaval. Almost the entire length of the submarine was lifted clear of the agitated sea, but only for a few brief moments. Completely torn asunder, the doomed craft disappeared from view, amidst a pall of smoke and under a rapidly increasing circle of oil and charred débris.
A wave of foaming water swept over the now submerged stern of the decoy-ship, hurling the zealous Gunner Jones against the dummy steering wheel.
The Complex's stem rose sullenly, until the whole of her forefoot showed clear. She was making her last plunge. The concussion of the exploding depth-charges, while they had sent her foe to her doom, had also hastened her parting.
"Abandon ship—all hands!" shouted the Old Man.
CHAPTER XXI
A Stern Chase
It was the work of a few moments for the rest of the highly-disciplined crew to take to the boats that, regardless of the danger, had closed to rescue their comrades.
Captain Meredith was the last to leave. True to the traditions of the British navy, he stood on the bridge until not another soul remained on board. Then, with the confidential code-book under his arm, he leapt nimbly into the stern-sheets of the cutter.
A couple of cables' lengths from the doomed vessel, the crews of the various boats lay on their oars and awaited the end. There was almost dead silence. Although the men were elated at having scored heavily off their treacherous foes, the sight of their erstwhile floating home disappearing for ever from mortal eyes was a sad one. Now and then some of the wounded groaned involuntarily. Those whose hurts were light insisted upon sitting up and watching the awe-inspiring sight.
The Complex went quietly. There was very little commotion in the water, no rush of compressed air. With the White Ensign streaming proudly in the light breeze, she slipped slowly beneath the surface and disappeared from view.
"The seaplanes, my hearties!" shouted a bull voice, and a horny hand was raised with the finger pointed at an angle of about forty-five.
"Smart work, by Jove," commented Cavendish, glancing at his wristlet watch.
Barely fifty minutes had elapsed from the time of sending out the first wireless call, and already the two seaplanes attached to the Basilikon were in sight.
They were manned by officers and petty-officers of the newly reconstituted Royal Naval Air Service. The Royal Air Force, although admirable in its conception, had failed in actual practice. The fusion of the Naval and Military branches had left much to be desired. Apart from mutual jealousy—a very different thing from healthy rivalry—the two branches were not readily interchangeable. It was soon realized that an airman working with a fleet must not only be an aviator—he must have had a naval training. It could not reasonably be expected that a man with little knowledge of ships and the sea could be of much use in an air squadron operating under the orders of an admiral. He might be, and possibly was, an excellent airman, but something more was required. Hence, after prolonged and heated arguments, the Admiralty got their way, and the purely naval airman again came into his own, unhampered by well-meaning but blundering Air Ministry officials. The two seaplanes, flying at two thousand feet, passed almost immediately above the bunch of motionless boats. From each a hand waved over the coaming of the cockpit a distant tribute to the cheers of the late crew of the Complex.
A few minutes later, the seaplanes were lost to view. Already they had received a report of the course taken by the fleeing Cerro Algarrobo, for that information had been embodied in the Complex's wireless for aid. Like vengeful wraiths they were hard in pursuit, with the object of bombing the pirate vessel and crippling her sufficiently to allow the destroyers either to capture or destroy the mysterious cause of the disappearance of so many British merchantmen.
Alone on the deep, the boats' crews became boisterous. They sang, cheered, and yelled, confident in the assurance that they would shortly find themselves on board a British warship. Their Old Man allowed them to "work off steam". It was a natural outlet for their pent-up feelings, after days and nights of ceaseless watch and ward, followed by a glorious climax of self-sacrifice.
It was not long before two trailing clouds of smoke appeared over the eastern horizon.
"Hurrah! here come the destroyers, lads," exclaimed Captain Meredith. "Give them a cheer as they pass and then sit tight for the old Basilikon to roll up. You'll be sleeping in hammocks to-night all right."
Quickly the approaching vessels materialized into two very business-looking destroyers, each armed with five guns—four 4.7-inch, one 3-inch—and six 21-inch torpedo tubes, and credited with a speed of 35 knots. At the present moment they were doing a good 5 knots more than their designed speed, flinging showers of spray on both sides of their pronounced flare and emitting flame-tinged smoke from their glowing funnels.
Then an unexpected manoeuvre took place. The men in the boats, fully prepared to have a terrific dusting from the swell of the swiftly-moving destroyers, had resumed their oars and were heading so as to meet the curling bow waves end on.
Instead of holding on their course, which would have taken them not less than half a mile from the nearest boat, the destroyers altered helm, one passing on either side of the little flotilla. Losing way under the reverse action of their quadruple propellers, the destroyers came to a standstill.
"On board, every mother's son of you!" shouted an officer from the bridge of the Messines.
The survivors of the Complex could hardly realize their good fortune. They were to be in at the death after all. They were to witness, and perhaps take an active part in, the smashing up of the so-called Holton Heath, otherwise the Rioguayan light cruiser Cerro Algarrobo.
Quickly the work of taking off the boats' crews was accomplished, the majority finding a temporary home on board the Armentières, the rest on the Messines.
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish was amongst the latter. He had barely time to exchange greetings with a short, bull-necked brother-officer—one Slade, who was on the same term with him at Dartmouth—when the Messines forged ahead again, leaving three deserted boats bobbing forlornly in her foaming wake.
"How goes it, old thing?" inquired Cavendish.
"Not so dusty," admitted Sub-lieutenant Slade. "We're hoping to finish the job before dark. We've a couple of hours yet.... You've been having a bit of a jamboree, eh what? See anything of the submarine?"
"I did," replied Cavendish grimly. "Both ends with nothing between 'em."
"Are you trying to pull my leg, Weeds?" inquired Slade earnestly.
"No—fact," was the reply. "We did her in with an ash-can—a couple, in point of fact. Couldn't let you know before. Dynamos were flooded and emergency wireless was out of action."
"You must tell our owner that," continued Slade. "He's on the bridge."
Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow received the information with marked enthusiasm and not a little relief. Hitherto, he was hampered by the knowledge that there was a mysterious submarine acting as consort to the pirate surface-craft. The submarine accounted for, left him and his "opposite number" on the Armentières with relatively free hands. They could concentrate all their energies upon the pursuit of the soi-disant Holton Heath without the chance of becoming targets to an invisible foe—unless there were other submarines out.
"It puzzles me," remarked Trehallow to Cavendish as they stood under the lee of the chart-room, the only possible spot on the otherwise exposed bridge where they could converse without having to shout in a howling wind, "it puzzles me to know where these blighters hail from. You can't hide even a disguised cruiser and a submarine in your coat pocket. They must have a base somewhere—but where? There's no port on this part of the coast that isn't under the control and jurisdiction of one or other of the South American republics. It's fishy—very. There's something pretty big behind this. Only the other day——"
The appearance of the yeoman of signals, with a signed pad in his hand, interrupted the Lieutenant-Commander's words.
"By smoke!" he ejaculated. "Here, Carfax!"
The officer thus addressed laid down his telescope and joined his chief behind the chart-house.
"Look here, Carfax," continued the Lieutenant-Commander, "what do you make of this?"
"This" was a crudely pencilled report, almost obliterated in places where the flying spray had played havoc with indelible pencil.
It was to the effect that both seaplanes had been compelled to alight on the surface for the second time in half an hour. On each occasion they had got well to the west'ard of their quarry, hoping to keep in the eyes of the setting sun and thus approach without being observed. They had succeeded in getting within three miles of the fugitive, when unaccountably their engines "konked".
"Alighted and made examination," proceeded the report. "Everything O.K. Restarted; came down again. Are now up again. Will——"
Here the message ended.
"Why didn't the silly owl finish?" inquired Trehallow testily.
"'Cause, sir, he's probably had to come down again," hazarded Carfax. "Can't wireless with the aerial trailing in the water and all hands trying to find out what's wrong with the old 'bus. 'Tany rate, we're only fifteen miles astern."
"And a stern chase is a long one," commented the Lieutenant-Commander, glancing at a western sky.
"Where is the pirate making for, I wonder?" inquired Cavendish, turning to Carfax, when the skipper had gone into the chart-room.
"According to what I've heard, he's making for the estuary of the Rio Guaya," replied the Sub of the Messines. "Goodness only knows what for. There are three potty little republics somewhere there, and they wouldn't dare to give shelter to a filibustering blighter like that. But what is puzzling me is, why do our seaplanes keep failing? We've had 'em up for eight hours on a stretch many a time and they've never had any trouble up to now. And when they're most wanted they're broken reeds. Give me something that floats, any old time," he added, with sublime youthful confidence in the omnipotence of sea power.
Twenty minutes later, another wireless report came through from the seaplanes. It was to the effect that neither was able to approach the fugitive pirate. If they attempted to do so their engines failed, but as soon as the pirate craft drew away there was no further trouble until they again overhauled their quarry.
Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow was obviously perplexed. At first inclined to imagine that the series of forced descents was due to accident, he had at last to admit that on the face of things the seaplanes were under some unknown adverse influence.
He therefore gave the airmen instructions to keep the pirate craft within sight, but not to close, until the destroyers came within visual distance of their foe. Then, rather than risk having to stop and pick up a couple of disabled aircraft, he would order them to return to their parent ship, the light cruiser Basilikon.
At length the masts and funnel of the fugitive ship appeared over the horizon. The destroyers, hard on her track, were now rapidly overhauling her, It was a question whether they would get within striking distance before dark. The odds were against that, for the sun was now only a few degrees above the horizon.
Meanwhile, all preparations were being made for a night encounter. Battle lanterns were provided in the event of the electric lamps being put out of action; night sights were attached to the guns; the parachute star-shells were taken from the magazine and the searchlights prepared for use.
The sun dipped. The short tropical twilight gave place to intense darkness. The moon was not due to appear for another couple of hours, and in that time the pirate vessel might have found an opportunity to evade pursuit.
There was no doubt that she was attempting to do so; but she had overlooked one important circumstance—her phosphorescent wake. Miles astern, clearly defined on the surface of the dark water, was a faint luminous trail and to this the avenging destroyers kept, like bloodhounds to a strong scent.
Suddenly a vivid flash of reddish light sprang out of the darkness ahead. A shell whined through the air, throwing up a column of spray two hundred yards on the Messines' port quarter.
"Six-inch, by the sound of it," commented Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow. "We've found her this time. On searchlights!"
CHAPTER XXII
Flying-boats v. Destroyers
Two dazzling beams from the Messines' bridge leapt across the waste of dark water. The Armentières' searchlights were almost immediately switched on, and the four powerful rays swept inquiringly in the direction from which the flash of the hostile quick-firer emanated.
Had there been two enemy vessels, Trehallow, as senior officer present, would not have ordered the searchlights to be run. In those circumstances it would have been bad tactics. Whilst you are "picking up" one opponent, the other will, to a certainty, pour in a withering fire. But when, as in the present case, it is possible to concentrate the dazzling beams upon a solitary hostile craft, the latter is practically blinded. She cannot fire with any degree of accuracy right into a bewildering glare, while her gun-layers, in the knowledge that they are literally "in the limelight" and in momentary anticipation of the arrival of a death-dealing salvo, become "jumpy" and possibly panic-stricken.
It was a matter of a few seconds before the beams picked up their objective. The Cerro Algarrobo was eight thousand yards away, and had just turned eight points to port, or at right angles to her previous course. With the discharge of her quick-firer she had resorted to a very old trick—one that stood a fair chance of success before the era of searchlights. She had dropped overboard a balsa-raft with a lighted lantern, in the hope that her pursuers would concentrate on that and give her an opportunity to escape in the darkness.
But now she lay revealed, with two powerfully-armed destroyers, both capable of giving her six or seven knots, well within effective range.
The Cerro Algarrobo was heavily armed and was protected on the water-line. She had a very numerous crew, well trained in modern naval warfare. Had the cruiser been manned by Britons and the destroyers by the pirates, the former would have been more than a match for her opponents. But the dominant factors—the man behind the gun and the cool, calculating brain in the conning-tower—were absent. The hot-blooded South American strain—partly Spanish, partly negro, with a touch of Indian and a flavour of a dozen other races—was no match for the British seaman.
Already, in her brief encounter with the Complex, the Rioguayan cruiser had "bitten off more than she could chew". She had lain in wait for the decoy ship in the belief that the latter was unarmed and unsuspecting, and that she could, with impunity, fire upon the already sinking British ship. Instead, she had been sent in headlong flight, with gaping holes in her upper works and fifty of her crew hors de combat And worse was to come.
The 4.7's were getting to work. Splashes of lurid light marked the explosion of the deadly missiles right on their target. The Rioguayan vessel replied, but feebly, most of her projectiles falling short and wide of the zigzagging destroyers.
In five minutes the Cerro Algarrobo was on fire fore and aft. Her masts and funnel had disappeared, her topsides were torn by ragged gashes through which lurid flames poured fiercely.
She was still making way, but at a very reduced speed, and showed a pronounced list to starboard.
"Cease fire!"
The pandemonium died down. A tense silence brooded over the destroyers, save for the hiss of escaping steam and the swish of water from their knife-like bows.
Satisfied that the pirate craft had received her quietus, the British destroyers were about to close and lower boats. There were lives to be saved, even if they were those of blood-thirsty pirates. Apart from humanitarian instincts, it was desirable to find out from the survivors the exact particulars of the mysterious buccaneering vessel.
A gun was discharged from the burning Rioguayan cruiser, Whether it was a note of defiance, or merely caused by the flames exploding the charge in a loaded quick-firer was a matter for speculation.
The masthead flashing lamp of the Messines sent out a demand for surrender, with the assurance that quarter would be given to the survivors.
"X G E" (surrender), read out the Chief Yeoman to the signalman, at the key of the flashing lamp, referring to the International Code Manual, "O A H (I will give you)..."
Then he paused and turned inquiringly to the Lieutenant-Commander.
"Beg pardon, sir," he exclaimed, "but there ain't no right letters for 'quarter '. Will this 'ere 'U E V' do?"
Trehallow glanced at the signal book.
"Use that and risk it," he replied, adding in an undertone, "s'pose the Tower of Babel is responsible for this."
"Beg pardon, sir?" reiterated the Yeoman of Signals interrogatively.
"Carry on," said the Lieutenant-Commander curtly. So the signal had flashed forth as follows:
"Surrender—I will give you one-fourth!"
The answer was in the negative. The Cerro Algarrobo replied with five or six rounds, one of the projectiles penetrating the Messines' quarter and completely wrecking the Skipper's cabin.
There was no hope for it. Both destroyers reopened fire. In less than thirty seconds an explosion was observed on board the hostile craft. Then, in a pall of smoke, she disappeared beneath the waves.
The crews of both destroyers broke into a round of stentorian cheers. With searchlights still playing on the debris-strewn water, the Messines hastened to search for possible survivors.
Slowing down, she lowered a couple of boats. The Armentières, lying-to a couple of cables away, assisted in the search.
Two half-naked and badly burnt men were rescued from the keel of an upturned boat. Others were observed to be clinging to a large float, somewhat resembling a "Carley" raft, at a considerable distance from the scene of the Cerro Algarrobo's disappearance.
The Messines' whaler was hurrying to their succour when there was a tremendous detonation within fifty yards of the Armentières. The destroyers heeled under the upheaval of the water. Men on deck were thrown about like skittles, some narrowly escaping being washed overboard by the torrent of water that swept completely over her. At the same moment her searchlights went out, probably owing to the dislocation of the circuits under the terrific concussion.
"What are those seaplane fellows doing?" exclaimed Trehallow. "They're bombing us, by Jove! Switch on our recognition lights. Be sharp there!"
But before the order could be carried out, bombs were descending close to both destroyers. Against the faint luminosity of the starless sky could be discerned the outlines of half a dozen aircraft, wheeling in squadron formation, preparatory to returning to the attack.
"Hostile aircraft!" ejaculated the Lieutenant-Commander, hardly able to credit his senses. "The sky's stiff with 'em."
The position of the destroyers was now an unusual one. With their boats still away picking up survivors, they could not manoeuvre at high speed. Their only means of offence was a solitary "A A" gun each. They were taken by surprise and had no means of finding out the actual nature of the aerial attack.
Ordering the searchlights to be screened and all lights visible from without to be masked, Trehallow next telegraphed for "easy ahead", at the same time warning the engine-room staff against the danger of allowing flames to issue from the funnels.
Then he steamed slowly in the direction of the destroyer's boats, the crews of which were still busy with the work of rescue, despite the danger to which the latest development of enemy activity so cruelly subjected them.
Doubtless the Armentières was similarly engaged. There was no sign of her in the darkness; added to the complicated business was the possibility of the two destroyers colliding.
Whether the Armentières was successful in her quest those on board the Messines were in ignorance. On her part, the Messines was fortunate to pick up her boats in quick time, including two survivors of the Cerro Algarrobo. The others sighted clinging to the raft had perforce to be abandoned to their fate; the coxswain of the Messines' whaler afterwards reported that a bomb had fallen close to the raft and had probably sent the luckless pirates to share the fate of the bulk of their comrades.
The boats had only just been hastily hoisted in and secured, when the loud drone of a dozen aeroplane engines announced the return of the aerial attackers.
It would be no exaggeration to state frankly that the crews of the two destroyers had—to use a pithy expression—"cold feet". On board a lightly-built craft, with little or no protection—for the decks were only of three-sixteenths steel—the crews were practically helpless. All they could do was to "stick it "; for, with the exception of the three hands manning the anti-aircraft gun, they had no means of offence against the almost invisible menace from the darkened sky.
In the heat of battle, even against odds, when each man had his active part to perform, there was little or no time for thoughts of personal danger. These were men who had willingly undertaken to remain motionless for hours upon the deck of a Q-boat when shelled by a submarine; they did so in the hope that an opportunity of hitting back with interest was imminent, They had weapons wherewith to strike and strike hard, and they were eager to take up the offensive at the very earliest opportune moment.
But now the position was different, They were defenceless—or practically so—against the hostile airmen. They were ignorant of the nationality of their foes, of the strength and manoeuvring power of the attacking aircraft. Yet not a man failed to do his duty, although his greatest concern was to conceal from his "raggie" any indication of the fear that gripped him. Both destroyers were now without way. They realized that zigzagging tactics were too risky. The tell-tale phosphorescent wake that had betrayed the fugitive Cerro Algarrobo would also reveal their presence to the men controlling those swift-moving machines high above the surface of the sea.
It was now so dark that the Messines had entirely lost touch with her opposite number. Not the faintest suspicion of a light was displayed. The anti-aircraft gun of each destroyer was silent, although the respective gunlayers were itching to let rip at the reapproaching aerial squadron.
Suddenly a star-shell fired from the leading flying-boat threw the two destroyers into a pool of light. All attempt at concealment was, for the present, futile. Engine-room telegraph gongs clanged. The long, lean boats darted forward, heeling to the action of their helms put hard over. The "antis" spat viciously, the crash of the exploding shells punctuating the roar of the aerial propellers.
One of the attacking aircraft, caught by a six-pounder, was literally pulverized. Apparently the detonation of the projectile had exploded her cargo of powerful bombs.
In the flash of the explosion, the rest of the attackers could be seen staggering under the effect of the air-blast; but, admirably handled, they recovered and resumed formation, closing up the gap where the luckless flying-boat had been.
The British crews cheered ironically at the destruction of one of their foes, but their triumph was short-lived. Almost before the shouting had subsided, a bomb struck the Armentières between the stern and the after torpedo tubes. So terrific was the force of the resulting explosion that the after part of the destroyer was completely shattered. Deprived of her propellers and rudder, she still carried way, though her deck as far for'ard as the aftermast funnel was awash. Knee-deep in water, her shell-shocked anti-aircraft gun's crew were still firing blindly.
"She's gone!" ejaculated Carfax, who with Cavendish and another officer, was on the Messines' bridge.
"No fear," replied Cavendish, catching a glimpse of the Armentières' outlines in the flash of the gun. "Watertight bulkheads are holding."
Cavendish was now almost unconscious of the peril that threatened the Messines. The plight of the Armentières had displaced all other thoughts. He felt himself speculating as to what ought to be done and what he would do had he been commanding-officer of the Messines.
Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow was grappling with a similar problem, but in his case he was quick to act. To attempt to seek safety in flight and leave the crippled destroyer to fall an easy prey to her attackers never entered into his calculations. He was debating whether to run alongside the Armentières and remove her crew, or whether to attempt to take the sorely damaged craft in tow.
The while bombs were dropping rapidly, but the enemy airmen were either novices at the game or were too excited to act with deliberation. The nearest of the terrible missiles fell not less than eighty yards away, turning the otherwise calm sea into a maelstrom of smoke-laden spray.
The second phase of the attack passed. The airmen had overshot their quarry and were turning to approach in the eye of the wind once more.
Trehallow rang for easy ahead, shouting to the quarter-master to lay the Messines alongside her consort. It was a difficult operation in the darkness, but with admirable skill and judgment the Lieutenant-Commander succeeded in his manoeuvre.
"Prepare to be taken in tow," he roared through a megaphone.
A greatcoated figure on the Armentières' deck raised his hand in acknowledgment. Men dashed on to her fo'c'sle to receive the heaving-lines. The wire hawsers were hauled aboard and shackled to the towing strops with the utmost dispatch, but without confusion. Here again discipline told.
Gently the Messines forged ahead until the strain on the hawsers was taken up. Then, in obedience to an order, dense clouds of smoke issued from both vessels, enveloping them like a pall.
Under cover of the smoke-screen—one of the recognized appliances of modern naval warfare—the two destroyers made a bid for safety. The odds were now in their favour. A single aeroplane might venture to attack through that lofty, dense, suffocating bank of artificial fog. More would stand a serious risk of collision. And, apart from having no visible target, an attacking aircraft would quickly loose all sense of direction while within the limits of the smoke-cloud.
Trehallow's next move was to send a wireless message to the Basilikon, requesting the light cruiser to keep away. It would be useless devotion on the part of the latter to run the risk of being destroyed by aerial bombs under cover of night.
Still zigzagging and consequently throwing a heavy strain upon the towing hawsers, the Messines carried on. There were limits to the duration of the action of the smoke apparatus. Sooner or later the two destroyers would have to emerge, but it remained to be seen whether they had eluded the five flying-boats. Perhaps the hostile aircraft were hovering, three thousand feet up and out of sight and hearing, waiting for their prey to disclose their presence. A period of suspense followed, but still the waiting planes—if they were indeed waiting—gave no indication of their presence.
Presently Cavendish touched his companion on the shoulder.
"Listen!" he exclaimed. "Machine-gun fire!"
"Not the faintest doubt about it, Weeds," rejoined Carfax, as the staccato reports were borne to their ears. "What's the move?"
At length the destroyers crawled slowly from the fringes of the smoke-cloud. The moon had risen and the sky and sea were bathed in brilliant yellow light. Not a sign of the hostile aircraft was to be seen. Twenty minutes later came the solution of the affair in the form of a wireless from one of the Basilikon's seaplanes.
"Report engaged unknown hostile aircraft. Two shot down. Rest in flight. Pursued, but unable to overhaul."