Gun running for Casement in the Easter rebellion, 1916

CHAPTER VIII IN ENEMY WATERS

A quarter of an hour after passing the torpedo-boat we had crossed the three-mile limit, and were in enemy territory.[4]

We kept a sharp look-out, for at any moment now we might run across an English cruiser, destroyer, or submarine.

English submarines had, in fact, been sighted a few days before, in company with outpost-boats, between Lasö and the Sound, while between Skagen and Göteborg, in the Skager-Rack, and on the Norwegian coast, especially off Lindesnaes and Jäderen, numerous English war-vessels, including both cruisers and destroyers, had been reported.

About two o'clock we were some five miles east of the island of Anholt, and at this point we had to make a critical decision.

Shortly before, the English had issued a notice which ordered all neutral steamers to follow a course within ten miles distance of the Scandinavian coast, the object being to facilitate the examination of shipping by the English warships. The small neutral nations were powerless to resist. The only 'neutral' which at that time dared to defy the English order was the Norwegian steamer Aud.

I had two good reasons for my decision: first, that to follow the Swedish coast meant a great waste of time, second, that the English would never, I felt sure, imagine that any neutral would have the hardihood to ignore their order. It was therefore natural to suppose that the principal part of their patrol forces would be concentrated in the immediate neighbourhood of the coast. By taking a course through the middle of the Kattegat and Skager-Rack, we should gain twenty-four hours, and probably escape a strict examination, which would also take up a good deal of time.

I therefore held a course for the present midway between the island of Lasö and Göteborg, intending to strike into the Skager-Rack higher up, northward of Paternoster. This course had, however, one great disadvantage. Supposing we were caught while on it, no amount of ingenious lying would help us, for all our papers were valid only from Christiania outwards, since that was our ostensible port of sailing.

Once more we had to trust our luck. The risk was, after all, not greater than in following the other course, with the chance of being vetted, by 'mark of the mouth,' by an English-Norwegian interpreter.

As soon as we were out of sight of land and of other ships, I rang down the order for 'Full speed ahead.' The main thing now was to get as quickly as possible upon a course which would make it credible that we had sailed from Christiania. If we were caught in the meantime, the game was up; if not, we had won the first trick. So—drive ahead!

Towards morning the wind dropped and became very uncertain, while the sky was almost completely overcast. To the west and north-west there was already a slight haze upon the water: the forerunner of a coming fog. If there was any one in the wide world who had reason to hope for a fog at that moment it was myself. We all stood on deck watching anxiously every slightest alteration in the weather. The watch below found they had no need for sleep that day. From minute to minute it grew thicker. Contrary to my previous intention, therefore, I stood in nearer the Swedish coast in order to get our exact 'position' by shore-bearings. It was quite possible that I might have no further chance of doing so for several days, for I had decided, when we reached the North Sea, to continue steaming out of sight of land, since, on the whole of the Norwegian coast up to a point northward of Bergen, numerous English patrolling vessels had been reported.

It must have been about 8 a.m. when the look-out aloft reported a ship ahead. A few minutes later we made her out to be a small cruiser of one of the older types.

I gave the order for emergency stations, and in a moment every man was at his allotted post. It was impossible, at the distance, to read the cruiser's small and rather weather-beaten flag, and we were bound to assume that she was English.

If so, what was to happen? There was nothing whatever in our papers that would serve to account for our presence in this neighbourhood. Suddenly, I had an inspiration. 'Stand by to hoist the quarantine flag,' I ordered, and signalled for 'half speed!' Then I told the men my plan. Every man who was not wanted on deck must wrap up his neck warmly and creep into his bunk. We on the bridge, too, wrapped ourselves in thick cloaks and wound great comforters round our necks. If the supposed Englishman looked as if he meant to approach us, I intended to run up the quarantine flag and signal to him that we were from Danzig, bound for Christiania, and had diphtheria on board. Perhaps I might ask him to give warning of our arrival in Christiania. In these circumstances he would certainly avoid coming on board. For the moment we should be safe; the rest we must leave to luck. As an extra precaution I had a bottle of carbolic poured over the deck, to provide the appropriate sick-bay odour.

The cruiser approached us at high speed. In ten minutes she would close us. It is a tense moment, for everything now hangs on the success of our stratagem. Suddenly she turns sharply on to a north-easterly course, the whole of her flag becomes visible, and reveals to our eager eyes the Swedish colours.

A weight fell from our hearts. In the twinkling of an eye the sick were whole, and the various objects which had disappeared into the 'conjurer's box' were speedily restored to the light of day. The dress-rehearsal had been a complete success.

Shortly after, we sighted, right astern of the steamer, the little island of Paternoster, to which we gave a wide berth to avoid inquiries from the signal station. At the same time, the coastline loomed up through the fog to starboard. I had now, if I wanted it, a good 'fix,' but I decided to take my 'departure' farther north, just before the big alteration of course to westward.

By midday we had made sufficient northing to be able to steer a course from that point right through the middle of the Skager-Rack.

A bearing from a lighthouse on the mainland, in conjunction with a sounding taken at the same time, enabled us to prick our position on the chart with great precision; and then we headed westward at full speed. If the thick weather only held for another six hours, we should be able to say, with a bold front, that we hailed from Christiania.

The 'cherub that sits up aloft' must have meant well by us, for the fog not only held, but thickened.

No need to spur the engine-room staff to special efforts. They knew how much now depended upon speed, and gave the engines every ounce that they would stand. About three o'clock we were abreast of Skagen, and I put her on a south-westerly course.

To avoid collision in the fog, we had nothing to depend on but our eyes and ears, for naturally I dispensed with the use of the siren. On the decks there was absolute silence. Nothing was to be heard but the gurgle of the water at the bow, and the monotonous beat of the pistons, as we drove steadily through the fog at a good twelve knots.

For two hours we ran like that, and then all at once a high, dark bulk loomed out of the fog right ahead, a bark under full sail.

'Hard a-starboard!' The wheel flew round at lightning speed. For a long moment it looked as if the manœuvre would not succeed, for the Aud answered but slowly to her helm. Fortunately, however, the sailing ship had also realised the situation and put her helm hard over, and we cleared each other in the end with fifty yards to spare. The bark was flying a red rag of bunting which must once have represented a Norwegian flag, and we gave our 'countrymen' a cheer as they went by.

Towards evening we had made such good way that we could quite well pose as being outward bound from Christiania; and from now on we had to start keeping a Norwegian log-book, for that, too, might well be subjected to examination. There were two of these logs, one for the navigation and one for the engine-room. We had, therefore, starting from the present position of the ship, to calculate back and find out at what hour the Aud left Christiania, and when and where we dropped pilot what's-his-name, and so forth. This information was entered under the appropriate headings.

Our real course, positions, speeds, coal consumption, etc., would, of course, in the future be quite different from those which the Norwegian log-books had to show, and the 'cooking' of these logs became later quite a difficult task.

It was my first introduction to the mysteries of 'Book-keeping by Double Entry.'

CHAPTER IX THE FIRST SIGN OF THE ENEMY

Towards nine o'clock there set in, unfortunately, a marked change of weather. A light wind from the west gradually dispersed the fog, so that it soon became quite clear, with good visibility.

The moon had already risen, but considerately remained hidden behind a cloud, so that the silhouette of our ship was not very distinct.

Towards midnight, we reckoned, we should be abreast of Lindesnaes. Here we expected to find the coast most closely watched by the English, since all traffic, whether from north, east, or west, must pass this south-western corner of Norway. In order not to arouse unnecessary suspicion, I ordered the mast-head light and side-lights to be lighted. But before doing so, I had the lenses rubbed over with lampblack, so that the lights could scarcely have been visible a few ship's lengths away.

We could thus, at any rate, say that we had our lamps burning, and throw the blame of their condition upon the lamp-trimmer. In the rest of the ship all lights were carefully screened.

Hour after hour of anxious waiting went by—another half-hour, another quarter, and we shall have Lindesnaes right abeam. Shall we get through unobserved?

We were spared the trouble of answering that question. Suddenly there was a flash to northward, and directly over the horizon there appeared one after another, one, two, three, four searchlights, making criss-cross patterns with their beams. Time after time they grazed us. When one of them suddenly rested a moment on us, we thought we were seen, but no; for a few seconds later it released us again and illuminated the water astern of us. Then another came sweeping round, and yet another. This merry game went on for perhaps five minutes, but that brief span seemed to us like an eternity, for every moment we expected a shot across our bows as a gentle hint to us to stop. But nothing happened.

It was only when the beams began to concentrate on a spot some distance to the east of us, and then climbed up into the heavens that we breathed freely once more.

After that I extinguished my lights again, and steered north-west for the open sea.

From that time forward, a point which I always took into consideration in laying my courses was that I should always be at least a day's steaming distant from the famous Kirkwall Harbour, to which the English sent in all suspicious ships. I counted that if we should be caught and a prize crew put on board of us, within the twenty-four hours we could find ways and means of dealing with our uninvited guests, and recapturing our ship.

The next day passed without any greater excitements than those provided by an encounter with a couple of suspicious-looking Dutch fishing-boats, and a Norwegian steamer. The latter evidently did not fancy the looks of her fellow-countryman, for she took to her heels, belching forth volumes of the blackest smoke that her furnaces could produce, and only resumed her course after giving us a very wide berth. We found it rather an agreeable interlude to figure as hunter instead of quarry.

CHAPTER X SOME EXCITEMENTS

We were now four days out, and the most we had seen of the 'Grand Fleet' of the English was a couple of searchlights.

I had been on the bridge all night, and had turned in for a short rest, when I was awakened by a loud tramping and shouting on deck.

'Smoke cloud on the port beam!' What could that be? Well, of course, it might be a trader, but it was just as likely to be a warship, for we were now approaching the Shetland cordon.

For a quarter of an hour there was nothing to be seen but a great mass of smoke, which grew sometimes fainter and sometimes stronger. For a while it looked as if it was produced by several funnels. To make sure, I sent my first officer up to the fore-top with an excellent Zeiss glass. A few seconds later he reported a high mast with spotting-top—the funnels were not yet to be made out. A warship, then. The plot began to thicken.

I gave the orders, 'Emergency stations. Course NE., Engine-room staff to reduce smoke.' A course to the east of NE. was, for the present, not advisable, for it was quite possible that there might be other warships in that direction, and it was not yet possible to make out which way the cruiser was heading.

The 'smokeless' stunt we now tried for the first time, and it went much better than we expected. This was the more creditable, because tramp-steamers have no special arrangements for smokeless firing, and the men, who were mostly reservists, had not been trained to it.

The moments that now followed were certainly the most anxious we had yet experienced. The cruiser seemed to be steaming towards us at full speed, for the mast, with its high wireless, could now be seen from our bridge as well as from aloft. 'A second lower mast now visible,' reported the look-out. As he described the relative position of the masts it became evident that the Englishman was heading about north-east. Had he really seen us yet, or not? I gave her four points more to starboard, so that we were now on an easterly course. Perhaps we might still escape.

The great difference in the height of the masts left no doubt that we had here to do with one of the very newest and fastest English cruisers. If she had sighted us, any attempt at flight was useless. But we counted on the English look-out not being as sharp as ours. It is natural that on monotonous outpost duty, cruising to and fro day after day in the same waters and hardly ever seeing anything but the same sea and sky, sky and sea, one's watchfulness should in the end get blunted. And that was just what happened.

A joyful shout from aloft suddenly announced that the cruiser was turning away. As we examined her more closely we could, in fact, see that the high fore-mast, which had originally been visible to the east of the lower mast, now showed to the north-west of it. Evidently the cruiser had turned on to a westerly course, and that meant that she had not sighted us. A short time later, nothing was to be seen of either mast, and soon only a pair of light wisps of smoke lay on the misty horizon. The whole thing had happened so swiftly and surprisingly that we could hardly believe in our good fortune.

On working out our position, I found that we were some seventy-five miles east of the Shetlands. A light bank of mist had now completely hidden the cruiser from us, and as we could see nothing more in any direction, we might conclude with some assurance that she was the easternmost cruiser of that outpost line which, a few weeks before, had almost proved disastrous to the returning Möwe. Only, the chain seemed now to have been lengthened out a little farther to the east. Barring the chance, then, that one or two English vessels were stationed well over towards the Norwegian coast, we might take it that we were already clear of the Shetland cordon, and had successfully eluded the first of the blockading forces, whose special task it was to frustrate just such attempts as ours to break through from the North Sea to the Atlantic.

So far, all well. The next problem was, which of the possible alternative routes we were to follow from this point onwards. The shortest routes were, of course, those between the Orkneys and the mainland, and between the Shetlands and the Faroe Isles. Both, however, would be very thoroughly watched, and I gave up at once the idea of following either. The much more circuitous route between the Faroes and Ireland meant eight and a half days' steaming, at an average speed of ten knots, before we could reach our destination. Moreover, here lay the main blockading force, consisting of large and powerful auxiliary cruisers, patrolling at short intervals its two hundred miles of open water.

There was yet another alternative, to go right round by the north of Iceland, but the feasibility of this depended on the ice-conditions, and on these I had not been able to get my exact information before sailing.

So much depended upon wind and weather that it would have been foolish to fix my plans unalterably for more than a day ahead, but, on the whole, the route between Iceland and the Faroes seemed to offer the best chance of getting through. I decided, therefore, to steam north, parallel, at a sufficient distance, to the blockading line, and wait for a favourable opportunity of slipping through.

The barometer was high and steady, indicating the continuance of fine weather. The main thing now was to get an accurate observation, for since leaving Paternoster we had no opportunity to get an exact 'fix,' and it was quite possible that the current might have carried us some distance out of our course. But towards noon the sky was overcast, and a mist lay on the horizon, making it impossible to take an accurate altitude, so there was nothing for it but to stand in towards the coast, in order to determine our position by soundings or by shore-bearings. We headed in, therefore, at full speed for Bremanjerland on the Nordfjord. Almost at the exact point we had calculated on, we got a sounding of the 'hundred-fathom line,' and so determined our longitude. There was now only the latitude to be fixed, and for that luck came to our aid sooner than we had hoped.

About half an hour before midday the fog-bank ahead of us suddenly lifted. A long, low strip of darker gray lay resting on the water. From minute to minute it grew longer and higher, till it became definitely recognisable as land, and the bold outlines of the high, precipitous coastline began to appear. And then—it might have been on the stage, so rapid was the transformation—suddenly the fog broke, as though we had been an enemy charging down upon it, the sun shone through the clouds, and before ten minutes had passed, a panorama of enchanting beauty lay before us.

Out of the clear, deep-blue water, now almost smooth as a mirror, for the wind had dropped, there rose majestically the lofty, snow-covered mountains of Bremanjerland. In the hollows of the mountainsides, and on the precipitous, jaggedly outlined pinnacles of rock, the snow glistened in the melting rays of the sun. Here and there, runnels of water streamed down over the naked, gray walls of rock into the sea, or found their way down the deep clefts which ran, darkly outlined as though with black chalk, down the face of the cliffs. To the east, where the mountains were higher, there was a succession of glaciers. One might easily have believed oneself transported to the Alps.

Gradually the numerous islands, which lay like outposts in front of the mainland, became more clearly defined. As there was nothing suspicious to be seen either on land or water—no boat, no human habitation, not even a lighthouse—I held on my course until I was close inshore. Then, with the aid of the charts and sailing directions, which give good silhouettes of this part of the coast, I was soon able to get my exact position.

The sudden change in the weather had, of course, played the deuce with my plans. It would have been madness to attempt to break through the Shetland blockade in weather so clear as this. I therefore decided to keep at a safe distance from the patrol line, and wait for a change of weather. I laid a course for the point—several hundred miles north-east of the Faroes—at which the Polar Circle intersects the meridian of Greenwich.

CHAPTER XI ON THE EDGE OF THE ARCTIC SEA

Towards four o'clock of the following day we had reached the point aforesaid. And now it was hard to know what to do, for the air was still clear, the sea glassy-calm, with no indications of an early change.

So far, we had seen no ice, though we were now on the edge of the Arctic Ocean. From that we might conclude that the route north-about round Iceland was not yet practicable, for the ice had not yet broken up.

To run the blockade was, in existing circumstances, hopeless; especially as it was nearing full-moon, and in these high latitudes there was, properly speaking, no night at all. I decided simply to stop the engines, and lie to all the next day. This kind of weather could not last for ever, and the date of my rendezvous gave me a couple of days to play with. For the moment there was not much danger, for no enemy craft was likely to penetrate so far north.

If the English were to have to look out for German ships up here, they might as well extend their outpost-line to the North Pole. In fact, if there was any risk at all, it came from our own submarines, not all of which could have received a warning about our voyage.

The stopping of the engines enabled some necessary repairs to be carried out, and all the machinery was carefully overhauled, for there was no knowing to what severe tests it might be put before all was done. The deck-hands occupied themselves in repainting the flags and lettering upon our sides, which, owing to the unfavourable conditions in which these works of art had had their birth, had been reduced by weather and water to a confusion of dots and splashes, which might well account for some of the suspicious looks we had encountered.

The day ended with a concert, which my second-officer opened, only too appropriately, with a song beginning, 'Calm lies the sea.'

So pressing was the problem, what we were to do during the next twenty-four hours, that before turning in that night I held a council with my officers in our little mess-room.

The blockade-line, which now lay before us, and which we must break through, unless we were to go north-about round Iceland, was the strongest of all the blockading cordons. We had reason to believe that it was formed by no less than ten to twelve large auxiliary cruisers. The distance from Iceland to the Faroes is, at the narrowest point, about two-hundred nautical miles. Assuming, therefore, that the average speed of these vessels was not more than fifteen knots, it was scarcely to be expected that we could slip through, except in thick fog, for the intervals between the patrolling cruisers must be very small. Never in my life have I done so much calculating of courses and distances as that night. All available charts and sailing directions were requisitioned, and for hours we bent over the charts with pencil and dividers, calculating, and weighing arguments. In the end we always came back to the point that we must make the attempt to break through; for all other alternatives were too unpromising. The conclusion we finally came to was, to make the attempt next day—provided the weather conditions became appreciably more favourable.

We looked at the barometer. Good heavens! Was it possible? In the last four hours it had fallen nearly a tenth.

At that moment there came a whistle down the voice-pipe beside my bunk.

'Well, what is it?'

'Waterspout to starboard, captain; come up at once,' shouted some one from the bridge. Scarcely had we reached the deck, when the portent swept past us, a great black column of water some five yards in diameter, narrowing in the middle, and spreading wider as it mounted into the clouds above.

The amazing thing was the speed at which, in spite of the dead calm, it swept along the surface of the water. Its force was evidenced by the whirlpool at its base, which left behind it a seething wake of foam.

It was well that it did not happen to take our little vessel in its track, for it would certainly have left us some unpleasing mementoes of its visit.

CHAPTER XII RIGHT THROUGH THE BLOCKADE

By next morning the barometer had fallen another tenth. Dirty-gray storm-clouds were slowly moving up from the west. From time to time faint cat's-paws appeared upon the water, now from the north, now from the west, and again from a south-westerly direction. That was very satisfactory, for it meant beyond all doubt, an early change of weather. The second-officer searched the horizon keenly with his glasses, and then muttered something to himself.

'I'm betting on a north-wester,' said I, 'with rain, and perhaps also fog. Can't you smell anything?'

The mate sniffed suspiciously. 'I don't think I'll take you,' said he. 'I was just going to say myself that I felt as if——'

'We shan't quarrel over that, then! I believe I can smell the fog coming. Wait and see.'

The eight o'clock observation gave us one degree of west longitude. We had therefore, though lying to with engines stopped, been carried westward by the set of the current, to the extent of a whole degree of longitude. The latitude had only altered by a few minutes, southward, as we had found a few hours before.

A dark shadow, which was now observable on the water, to the south, made us reach hastily for our glasses.

Wind. South wind. It was coming now—just what we had been praying for. A few minutes more and it would have reached us. While the water slowly began to crisp under the breeze, the horizon line began to waver; the clear, sharply-defined line which marked the division between sea and sky seemed in places raised and undulating—the first presage of coming fog. Towards ten o'clock the wind jumped round to the south-west, and freshened. Light wisps of vapour began to drift down on our port bow, and sometimes from right ahead. Half an hour later the horizon was so dim that it was impossible to take an altitude.

'What about it?' asked Düsselmann, who was taking the watch, giving me, as he spoke, a keen, sidelong glance, his right hand already on the lever of the engine-room telegraph.

I thought a moment, then: 'Carry on,' I said. 'Half speed! Course, south-west!'

The telegraph rang. In engine-room and stokehold things got lively. Heavily and slowly the screw began to revolve, there was a churning and frothing at the stern, and the Aud got slowly under way. Once more in the charthouse there was a frenzy of calculating and measuring; with the result that we decided to proceed as far as a certain point at reduced speed, so that it would still be open to us, if necessary, to choose the northern route. But if, by the time we reached that point, the misty weather continued, then during the night we would try for the break-through.

By midday we estimated the strength of the wind as 3.[5] From time to time there were light showers of fine rain. Pity that we were still a day's steaming from the danger-line, otherwise we might well have got through that night, for the moon was completely obscured by clouds. The barometer fell slowly but steadily. For the present it was still too high to mean an immediate storm, but if it continued to fall at the same rate we might have more than we bargained for later on. For the present we were well content. We were now nearing the point which must mark for us the parting of the ways, and I decided for the southern route—through the blockade.

The look-outs were now doubled. Even the cook had to 'stand his watch,' and was greatly delighted at being allowed on the bridge, close to the exalted beings who performed the mysteries of navigation.

Now, more than ever, the motto for every one was: 'Keep your eyes skinned!' Ahead of us were the enemy outposts in imposing numbers, and on our starboard bow, on the east coast of Iceland, enemy auxiliary cruisers had also been reported.

Next day was the 16th of April. At 4 a.m. there was entered in the log-book under the heading 'Weather' the following remark: 'Overcast, increasingly misty, occasional heavy showers, wind, south-west 4[6], freshening, corresponding sea.'

We reckoned out the course and the distance. It was still 150 nautical miles to the line on which the enemy cruisers were patrolling. If we aimed straight for the middle of this line, we should, at an average speed of ten knots, arrive at that point at about 8 p.m.

That was good luck for us, for 8 p.m. is, on all ships, the hour for a change of watch, and at such times the men's attention is bound to be a little distracted. Moreover, the day was a Sunday. And on Sunday, in English ships, every one would certainly do himself a little extra well, with the aid of whisky and similar good things. Up here, too, that was especially to be expected. For the men on a remote outpost station like this, who were doubtless not relieved too frequently, in their monotonous but trying duty, that was almost the only pleasure which they had a chance to enjoy. Moreover, in view of the overcast weather, it was pretty certain that by eight o'clock it would be already growing dark. By dawn we could be sixty miles beyond the enemy line, and of course far out of sight.

'Full speed ahead!' Now for it!

The farther west we steamed, the more the wind and sea increased in strength. Spray began to dash over the bows, and soon forced us to seek the protection of our oilskins. The afternoon brought a very pleasant surprise, for the rain quite slowly and imperceptibly transformed itself into a real undeniable fog, which grew thicker and thicker. By 4 p.m. one could scarcely see half a mile. Our chances were improving from minute to minute. Were we really to have such luck? It was scarcely believable.

We steamed south-west at full speed. Any one seeing us would have thought that we must have come out of the Polar Sea. Even in peace time that would have been unusual; how much more so now in time of war.

What would happen, then, if an Englishman suddenly jumped out of the fog upon us? We could scarcely expect him to believe that we were nothing but a harmless collier!

By six o'clock the visibility was down to three or four ship's lengths at most. The whole ship's company was on the look-out. No one thought of sleep; excitement kept us all alert. Gray and heavy lay the fog upon the water. Nothing was to be seen or heard. The uncanny stillness pressed like an incubus upon our excited nerves. Our binoculars were hardly ever away from our eyes. Every other moment we thought we heard or saw something abnormal. Meanwhile, the Aud was thrashing more and more heavily through the rising sea. Big white caps broke against her bow, the spray was thrown up over bridge and funnel. Every moment, as the ship drove onward towards the enemy's line, the tension grew. We scarcely dared to breathe.

'Time, please?'

'Seven-ten, captain,' came the whispered reply.

'Sharp look-out ahead. We're close on the line.'

It was odd to see how every man, as though to see farther, craned his neck forward, as he sought to pierce the thick veil ahead.

The minute-hand marked 7.15. The minutes were passing much too slowly for us.

But what was that? 'Hard a-port!' 'Increase speed to the utmost!' 'Emergency stations!'

The wheel flew over to port with a jerk, the wires of the engine-room telegraph underneath the deck-planks creaked as though they would break. As a startled sea-bird sheers away, so the Aud shoots in a sudden curve to port, while to starboard, not two cables' lengths off, a dark, black-gray mass looms ghostly out of the fog.

Damnation! An auxiliary cruiser! Her silhouette became clearer—two masts, high upper works, a thick funnel.

'Half speed!' 'Course, south-by-west!' There is no possibility of escape by flight. We are discovered, for the English ship, which I estimated roughly as of 10,000 tons, alters course at the same moment, and steams along parallel to us, scarcely 200 yards away. She must be going at reduced speed, for she keeps obstinately just abreast of us. The comedy is about to begin.

At the first alarm, the 'watch below'—who had all been keeping a look-out on deck—hurry away to their bunks, the suspicious objects are hidden; we on the bridge, with beating hearts but outwardly cool and collected, tramp up and down with our hands in our pockets, expectorating freely and smoking like chimneys. There is nothing to indicate that we are in the least perturbed by the appearance of the cruiser. Dully, as if it was all a matter of course, we take an occasional glance ahead through our glasses, tooting every couple of minutes, like the simple merchantman we are, with our hoarse steam siren, in dutiful obedience to the rules laid down for warning-signals during fog. To the unwelcome stranger we scarcely give a glance. The crew of a tramp are apt to be indifferent. Thus, for an appreciable time, we steam quietly along, side by side, neither making any overtures to the other.

I am, of course, burning to know what the Englishman is up to. In order to make unobtrusive investigations—it is evident that all the available binoculars on the cruiser were being turned on us—I send my second-officer into the charthouse. The observations which he makes through the charthouse window he then communicates to me on the bridge through the voice-pipe. 'Several large guns forward—same aft,' is the tenor of his first report.

Gradually, over yonder on the cruiser, things begin to liven up. More and more men appear on deck, and stare hard at us.

'Our reckoning was right to a hair, any way,' opines the second-officer, with a sarcastic grin—small consolation in the present circumstances. We wait and wait for a signal from the Englishman, ordering us to stop, or a round of blank fired for the same purpose; but nothing of the kind happens.

Damn it all, is the fellow going to escort us in to the Faroes? It almost looks like it, for those rocky islands must lie right ahead, though still a day's steaming from here.

Time goes on, and we still wait, bracing ourselves for what may come. When the chronometer shows 7.30 I order 'seven bells' to be loudly and clearly struck on the ship's bell. We had, for good and sufficient reasons, hitherto pointedly neglected this universal usage of board-ship life. The men standing watching us at the cruiser's rail gradually drift away again. A dirty little collier is, of course, no very interesting object. Moreover, it is cold and wet on deck, and at eight o'clock the watch will be changed. Perhaps, also, a tot of steaming grog is being served out below.

It began to grow dusk. In order to confirm the Britisher in his conviction of our innocent character, I gave orders to light the masthead light and side lights. The English and Norwegian signal books lay ready to our hand on the flag-locker. We had already looked up the signals that we were likely to want. But it was all for nothing. No activity was to be observed either in the neighbourhood of the guns or of the boats. Gradually even the bridge was left to the sole tenancy of the officers of the watch.

Was the Britisher keeping some big surprise up his sleeve, or did he really take us for what we pretended to be? That they could read clearly on our side. The course, however, on which they found us might surely have given them food for thought. Did they really not find anything curious in the idea that a ship of our type should be coming straight from the North Pole?

I must confess that the conduct of this English auxiliary cruiser—whose name, unfortunately, we could not make out, as it had been painted over, was one of the greatest puzzles of my life, and has remained so to this day.

Eight bells. Change of watch. On board the English ship also the new watch came on deck. She was now so close to us that every movement on her deck could be seen, although it was now growing perceptibly darker. Good God! If we had only had a torpedo or a submarine in attendance; a more favourable opportunity for a hit with a torpedo could hardly be imagined. Boof! the cruiser buries her nose deep in a sea and takes a considerable quantity of water over her bows, to come pouring in great streams out of her forward scuttles.

'I believe the fellow funks the weather,' said one of my men.

Well, that was always a possibility. With the sea then running—the wind had increased to force 5 or 6[7]—the Britisher may not have fancied getting out a boat with a prize crew. Moreover, the day was Sunday. Perhaps his idea was to escort us till we fell in with the cruiser on the next station southward, and leave the job to her. However, if it came to taking a prize crew on board, we thought we knew how to deal with them.

In the end the Britisher began to get on my nerves. I considered whether it would be advisable to signal to him with the Morse lamp, asking for our exact position.

Somehow or other I must find out what he wanted with us. By pretending that, owing to the fog, we had been unable to get our exact position for a long time, I might perhaps be able to break through his reserve.

Then, suddenly, we saw the Britisher increase his speed, shoot ahead of us for about three hundred yards, and then, putting her helm hard over, swing across our bows and take a SSE. course. Oho! thought we, now something's going to happen.

But the Britisher had no idea of coming to close quarters with us. Farther and farther he drew away from us in a southerly direction. Soon he had faded into the fog so completely that all we could see of him was a formless dark blur. We could hardly trust our eyes. But when shortly afterwards even the dark blur disappeared and nothing was to be seen but fog, and yet more fog, a joyful exclamation broke from us all. 'We're safely through!'

It was now a question of putting our best foot forward and making ourselves scarce. Once more the engine-room telegraph rang 'Full speed ahead!' the lights were once more extinguished, and at the best speed we could make, we steamed north-west.

'My belief is,' said Düsselmann, with a grin, 'the fellow was honestly sorry for us. I'll bet he said to himself, "Hope the old tub will make her next port safely anyhow!"'

It was a possible explanation. He had been guilty of an unpardonable error; but no one had better reason to pardon him than we.

It was eight o'clock when he left us, after keeping us company for exactly an hour. What we had now to do was to get ourselves as quickly as possible out of the neighbourhood of the cruiser line. There was a possibility, too, of pursuit by fast destroyers, for our cruiser might later become aware of his stupidity. During the next hour, too, we had to reckon with a possible encounter with an auxiliary cruiser a little out of her course, for in fog it is no easy matter to keep station, with wind, sea, and current all playing tricks with one—as I knew only too well from my outpost service.

It was only three hours later, when nothing had happened in the meantime, that I ventured to steer a westerly course again.

We were now in the North Atlantic—a long stage nearer our goal.

Towards midnight it was blowing so hard that we had to lash down everything movable on deck to prevent the seas that came aboard us doing any damage. On both sides of the deck I had life-lines stretched to hold on to. The wind had meantime veered round to the west, and later on to north-west. The fog had disappeared. Showers of rain swept over us at constantly shorter intervals. The barometer was falling with notable rapidity. These were sure signs of the approach of a north-wester.

The little Aud thrashed her way more and more heavily through the confused sea, shaking off indignantly the masses of water which came swishing over her bows. Her blunt bows and the unusual height of her upper-works offered too much resistance to the wind. It was no wonder that our speed fell gradually from ten knots to five, and afterwards to four. We scarcely seemed to be making any headway at all.

Not to lose way too much, I put her on a more southerly course, but only so much as would still keep me clear of the blockade line which was stationed westward of the Hebrides. Even in the thickest fog one was never quite safe from the English bloodhounds, and it was scarcely to be hoped that the next we met would be as stupid as the last.

Wind and sea were now from the north-west—nearly on our beam—and we rolled heavily. By midday the wind was already blowing with force 8.[8] We could easily have more of this than we wanted. I had confidence in the ship, which was staunch and seaworthy enough to ride out even a heavy storm; what worried me was the cargo. As has already been mentioned, this had not been as well stowed as under normal conditions the safety of the ship demanded. With seas breaking over us all the time there was no use thinking of re-stowing it; the holds would have been filled with water the moment the hatchways were uncovered. If the ship began to labour yet more heavily there would be nothing for it but to lie to and wait for calmer weather.

The seas grew bigger and bigger, one squall followed hard on the heels of another. The glass fell steadily. All the signs pointed to a regular hurricane.

I had had no astronomical observation for the last two days, and meanwhile the wind, the run of the seas, and the current (the last very uncertain in the neighbourhood of Iceland), had doubtless carried us some way out of course. How much, it was impossible to estimate with any accuracy.

On the other hand, it was of the first importance that I should make an accurate land-fall, as I could not risk having to feel my way along the Irish coast, and to that end it was very desirable to get an exact position during the next day or two. It was highly probable, however, that the weather would not permit of an observation. I therefore decided to lay a course for the Rockalls, from which we were now about a day's steaming.

These Rockalls are a veritable wonder of nature. Far out in the Atlantic, more than two hundred nautical miles west of the Scottish coast, there lies a far-stretching reef, a sandbank with innumerable little points of rock sticking up through it. The bank has a diameter of about three nautical miles, and runs roughly east and west. At its western end there rises out of the water a single rock, neither higher nor wider than an ordinary two-story house. This rock is the only visible portion of the reef, all the other ridges are covered, though many of them are only just below the surface of the water. Where the bank ends, the floor of the Atlantic goes suddenly down to a depth of several thousand yards. Even on the big English charts the Rockalls are only marked with a point about as big as the head of a pin. The sailing-directions mention that in the course of a year dozens of ships are wrecked upon these rocks and perish with all hands. It is a veritable ocean graveyard. The soundings which the charts give on the banks are few, and, as all the books state, very uncertain, because no one has taken the trouble to survey this inhospitable island. The thing to do is to avoid it. I knew, therefore, that I was taking a considerable risk in making for it, even though I should approach it from the west, and with the greatest caution.

It would suffice, however, if I sighted it from a distance; that would give me a sufficiently exact position. So I hardened my heart and laid my course for the western extremity of the bank.

By now the storm was howling like hell let loose, the squalls slung volleys of hailstones down on us. The seas raged against our little ship, which still shouldered them from her gallantly. Darkness at length descended upon the furious raging of the elements.

'Wind-force 10 to 11,'[9] reads the entry in the log, made by the officer of the watch at 8 p.m. 'Force 12' is the maximum. The scale provides for nothing beyond that.

The constant showers of rain and hail added to the blackness of the night. It was almost impossible to see at all. Suddenly, through a rift in the clouds, the moon shone out. And just in time.

Ahead, about four points on the starboard bow, a dark shadow was visible. No need to guess what it was, for already we could see, though vaguely, a long, lean hull with several promenade decks, two high, thin funnels, and two masts. Passenger liner or auxiliary cruiser? It was too dark to tell. All we could see—and we noted it with some satisfaction—was that, for all her 12,000 tons, she was making just as heavy weather of it as we were.

In spite of the breaking seas that swept over the after part of the ship, I reduced speed immediately. It was the only possible chance. As luck would have it, a sudden hail-shower hid us for the moment. The steamer carried no lights, and was going slow. Probably, therefore, an auxiliary cruiser on patrol.

A quarter of an hour of anxious waiting followed. Suddenly the liner seemed to wake up. Inexplicably, she increased speed and steamed away. By that time the distance between us had decreased to half a mile. If every one on board, including the officers of the watch, had not been asleep, they must have seen us.

The British boasted of the watchfulness of their fleet; I cannot help thinking that at the time of our break-through it must have been hibernating.