He had hardly began to haul when the end came. A shell bigger than any yet took the 'Maid of Sker' amidships. There was a fearful explosion, Ken felt himself hurled forward, and next moment the chill waters of the Dardanelles closed over his head.
Gasping with the sudden shock, Ken struck out and got his head above water. Only a few yards away, he saw Roy still clinging tightly to the survivor of the dinghy's crew. He swam hard towards him and managed to reach him.
'You!' gasped Roy, who hardly seemed to have realised what had happened.
'The trawler's gone,' panted Roy, as he lifted one hand and dashed the salt water from his eyes. 'Big shell got her. See, she's still afloat, but sinking fast.'
Roy gave a groan. He seemed to be nearly at the end of his strength.
'The brutes!' he muttered.
'We must get hold of the dinghy again. It's our one chance,' said Ken. 'Here, let me help you with that chap.'
'Why, it's Gill,' he exclaimed, as he caught the man by the other arm, and started paddling hard towards the dinghy, which, caught in the current, was drifting steadily away southwards.
It was at this moment that the searchlight switched suddenly off. Darkness shut down around them, leaving nothing in sight but the overturned boat, a dim bulk among the dull ripples.
Roy was almost done as the result of the exertions he had made in holding up Gill, and Gill himself weighted them terribly. For two minutes or more Ken thought they would never reach the boat.
At last they managed it, and then they had only just strength enough left to haul Gill up across it and, each with an arm across the keel, cling and let themselves drift where the current took them.
'The skipper said it was out of the frying pan into the fire,' said Roy, with a weak attempt at a laugh. 'He wasn't far out, eh, Ken?'
'He wasn't,' Ken agreed. 'I say, Roy, he had pluck, hadn't he? It took grit to stand by the "Swan" under a fire like that.'
'It did,' said Roy. 'God rest his soul,' he added softly.
Silence fell between them. Ken's spirits were sinking in spite of his best efforts to keep them up. The sea was deadly cold, and the boat so small that they were only just able to keep their heads above water. And they knew, both of them, that their chances of life were not one in a thousand.
They were right out in mid-straits, they were still fully nine miles from the southern entrance, and even if a British warship should come up to see what had happened to the trawlers, the odds were enormous against her people spotting them.
Ken strained his eyes through the gloom, but could neither see nor hear any other craft. The waters were bare and silent.
'Roy,' he said at last, and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering. 'Roy, can't we manage to right the dinghy?'
'You and I might. But what about Gill?'
The question was unanswerable. It would take all their united strength to turn the dinghy over. And who was to hold Gill meantime?
No, the case was absolutely desperate. There was nothing for it but to hang on and continue hanging on until at last the deadly cold had done its work, and they dropped off and sank into the darksome depths beneath them. It was a miserable end, and Ken's whole soul rebelled against it.
The guns had ceased firing, there were no lights anywhere to be seen, the only sound was the monotonous slap of the ripples against the hull of the overturned boat and—far in the distance—the dull mutter of the guns down by Sedd-el-Bahr.
Ken felt a dull stupor creeping over him, a curious sense of unreality. His thoughts began to wander. So much so that at first he hardly noticed the curious sucking splash which came from the water some little distance to the left.
It was Roy who called his attention to it.
'Ken, there's a thundering great fish out there. Do they keep sharks in these waters?'
Before Ken could reply, the splash was followed by a slight grating sound, then a dull clank, like two metal plates being lightly struck together.
Hope dawned suddenly in Ken's heart, sending a tingling shock through the whole of his perishing body.
'That's no fish,' he muttered. 'That's no fish.' Then raising himself as high as he could out of the water he sent a sharp cry for help pealing through the darkness.
'Hallo! Hallo! Who's that?'
Never had Ken been happier to hear the sound of a human voice.
'Three survivors from the "Maid of Sker,"' he answered. 'Our boat's upset.'
'Hang on!' came the quick reply. 'We'll have you out in a jiffy.'
There came low voiced orders, the low purr of an engine, and a low dark bulk topped by a curious square-looking turret came gliding towards them.
'What is it?' muttered Roy in a dazed tone.
'A submarine,' Ken answered gladly. 'That's her conning tower. Here she comes. Hang on to Gill, or the wash will take him off.'
A moment later, and the long gray craft swam up right alongside of the dinghy. It was the most beautiful bit of steering imaginable. A hand reached out and pulled the dinghy close against the hull, and strong arms gripped and lifted the three aboard.
Ken felt himself swung gently up the conning tower, then he was lowered with equal ease and skill through the open hatch. Within an incredibly short time he was flat on a mattress laid on the throbbing steel floor of the submarine.
A keen-faced officer stood beside him.
'Both the sweepers gone?' he asked gravely.
'I'm afraid so, sir. The "Swan" was knocked all to bits, and we saw the "Maid" sink. I believe we are the only survivors.'
'We heard the firing, but couldn't get here sooner. But you're in khaki. How's that?'
'Horan and I are escaped prisoners, sir. We stole a boat up by Kilid Bahr, and were picked up by the "Maid." Gill is the only man left from the trawler. He was one of the crew of the "Maid's" dinghy that went to help the "Swan's" people.'
'And you?'
'Horan and I were trying to save him when the "Maid" was hit.'
The other nodded approvingly.
'Ah, you're Australians. Good men! But I see you're about all in. I shan't bother you with any more questions now. Williams, see these men have a change, and a tot of rum. And some of you give 'em a good rub down. They're stiff with cold.'
He nodded again and went off.
Williams, a burly torpedo coxswain, at once took charge of Ken. His big hands were as tender as a woman's as he stripped off the boy's soaking clothes and substituted for them a fresh suit of warm lammies. Before putting them on, he gave Ken such a rubbing with a rough towel as sent the stagnant blood tingling through every vein.
'Thanks awfully,' said Ken gratefully. 'I say, how's Gill? He got knocked silly with the blast of the shell that sunk the "Swan." Is he hurt?'
'He ain't hit, anyway,' said Williams. 'He's swallowed a bit more salt water than suits his innards, but he'll pull round all right, never you fear.
'Here, drink this down,' he continued, handing Ken a thick mug full of some steaming mixture. Ken swallowed it obediently. It was thick Navy cocoa, laced with a dash of rum.
It sent a grateful warmth through every inch of Ken's body, but its immediate effect was to make him so drowsy that his eyes began to close.
'That's all right,' he heard Williams remark in a satisfied voice. 'Forty winks won't do you no manner of harm.' The last thing Ken remembered was being wrapped in a blanket. Then he dropped back on the mattress and almost before his head reached it was sound asleep.
He woke to the purr of engines and a warm thick atmosphere smelling strongly of oil and illuminated by white electric lamps. For the moment he could not imagine where he was nor what had happened. It was not until he rolled over and saw Roy lying stretched on another mattress beside him, and Gill a little beyond, that any sort of recollection came back to him.
He stretched himself. He was sore all over, but otherwise fit enough and very hungry. Then he sat up.
A burly figure came towards him, walking with that curiously light-footed tread which becomes second habit in a submarine. It was Williams, the coxswain.
'Well, young fellow me lad,' he remarked genially, 'how goes it?'
'Top hole, thanks. A bit empty. That's all.'
'If that's your only trouble, we'll soon fix it. Can you walk?'
'You bet.'
'Then come along forrard, and we'll see what cooky can do for you.'
Cooky's efforts consisted in biscuit, butter, sardines, jam, and lashings of hot strong tea, to all of which Ken did the fullest justice.
'And how d'ye like life under the ocean wave?' asked Williams, who was watching Ken's progress with the eye of a connoisseur.
'First time I ever tried it,' said Ken, glancing round the long, narrow interior which seemed merely a packing case for a maze of intricate machinery. 'What is she? What class I mean?'
'She's G 2, sonny, and don't you forget it. The last word in submarine gadgets. Twenty knots on the surface, and twelve submerged. Carries eight o' the biggest and best torpedoes, any one o' which is warranted to knock the stuffing out o' the "Goeben" or any other o' Weeping Willy's super-skulkers.'
'Where are we now?' inquired Ken with interest.
'Couldn't say precisely. But somewheres about ten fathom below the shinin' surface of the Dardanelles.'
Ken felt a queer thrill. There was something uncanny in the thought that they were spinning along, sixty feet below the sea-level, cut off from all the living world.
'Pass the word the commander wishes to see Carrington,' came a voice.
'Lootenant Strang wants you,' said Williams. 'Go right aft. Sentry'll show you. And go careful, mind you. Submarines ain't the sort o' shops for foot races.'
Ken went cautiously back past the amazing tangle of spinning, whirling machinery. Where the long interior narrowed to the stern hung a thick curtain. The sentry silently parted it, and Ken found himself in the officer's quarters of G2. They were as plain as the steerage on a liner. Just two bunks and in the middle a table at which Lieutenant Strang sat, busily writing.
He glanced up as Ken entered, and, saluting, stood to attention. Ken noticed, with inward approval, the strength and intelligence in the clean-cut features of the commanding officer.
'Feeling better, Carrington?'
'Quite all right, sir, thank you.'
'Had breakfast?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I want to hear what you've been doing. Let's have the whole yarn.'
Ken told him. He put it as shortly as he could, but gave his story clearly and well. Lieutenant Strang listened with the deepest attention.
''Pon my word, you and your chum have been going it some!' he remarked when Ken at last finished. 'So you're a son of Captain Carrington? How is it you did not take a commission?'
'I didn't think I had any right to it, sir,' Ken answered simply. 'It seemed to me it was the sort of thing one ought to win.'
'Just so. I dare say you are right. I hope you'll get one anyhow. But see here, I can't put you ashore. We're going north, not south.'
'Going up through the Straits, sir?' exclaimed Ken. 'We've gone. We're opposite Bulair this minute, so far as I can judge.'
'Then—then you're bound for Constantinople?' said Ken eagerly.
Strang laughed.
'Not necessarily. No, I am not particularly anxious to charge into the Golden Horn. It's a deal of risk, and not much to be got out of it. Our mission is to cruise in the Marmora and look out for Turkish transports and store ships.'
'Why, what's the matter?' he broke off, noticing how Ken's face had fallen.
'I beg your pardon, sir. It was my father I was thinking of. You see he is in Constantinople—at least, so that scoundrel Henkel told me. I thought I might have a chance of getting ashore and helping him.'
'My good fellow, you must be crazy. Apart from the fact that I should have the greatest difficulty in putting you ashore, you would, of course, at once be arrested and shot as a spy.'
'I don't think so, sir. You see I know the place well, and have friends there. And I talk the language as well as I do English. I know some Arabic, too.'
'The deuce you do!' said the commander, staring at him keenly. 'Then it's possible that you may be uncommonly useful to me during our present trip. No, I shall tell you no more just now. And pray put out of your head any such mad idea as landing at Constantinople.'
'Very well, sir,' Ken answered quietly. And saluting again, he left the cabin.
Going forward again, he found Roy tucking into an enormous breakfast with every evidence of enjoyment. Williams was acting as host, and listening with interest to Roy's account of their wanderings across the peninsula.
Ken asked for Gill, and heard that he was doing very well, but only fit to lie up for the present.
Roy rose, brushed the crumbs from his lammies and stretched his tall frame.
'Heigh ho, I wish we could get back to our chaps,' he remarked regretfully.
'Well, of all the ungrateful beggars!' said Ken with a laugh. 'Talk of buying a ham and seeing life, you won't see as much in the trenches in a month as you'll see here in a day.'
'Any one can have this steel box for me,' retorted Roy. 'I like to fight where I can see what's coming.'
'Maybe you'll see more'n you want before you're finished with this trip, ye long grouser,' put in Williams. 'This ain't no pleasure picnic, let me tell you. Our old man's hot stuff, he is, and if I knows anything about it, it won't be long before he starts handing out surprise packets to them Turks.'
'Hallo,' he broke off, 'we're for the surface.'
As he spoke, G 2's bow began to rise and the whole long hull took a gentle slope.
'Pretty quick!' exclaimed Ken. 'I thought you had to do a lot of pumping first.'
'Bless you, no,' said Williams with a superior grin. 'Not with these 'ere modern craft. They works with horizontal rudders, sort o' fins along the side. Blime, G 2 can pop up and down mighty nigh as quick as a dab chick.'
'There now,' he continued, as the vessel came back to an even keel. 'She's floating just submerged. I reckon her periscopes is just out o' the water.'
'Could we have a look?' asked Ken eagerly.
'Ay, I dare say. You wait a minute and I'll see.'
He was back in a minute, and beckoned them to come.
There were two periscopes. It was the forward one they were called to. They saw a circular table from which a tube ran up through the top of the submarine. A man in shirt-sleeves—he was the other coxswain—got up from a stool and motioned Ken to take his seat and look through what seemed like a pair of binoculars.
Ken gave a cry of surprise. Instead of the hot, stuffy interior of the submarine with its pale electrics and maze of machinery, he was gazing at a wide circle of small-crested waves which shone gloriously blue under a brilliant sky. Now and then a white-winged gull swooped across the view, but apart from these, there was no sign of life or of land.
'Here, let's have a squint,' said Roy eagerly, and Ken gave way.
'Why, it's like a living picture show,' declared Roy. 'Gosh, I could sit and watch it all day. But I say, can't other craft spot the periscope in all this sunshine?'
'Not with this bobble on. At least not very easy,' said the observer, as he took his place again.
'Where are we?' asked Roy.
'Somewheres in the Sea o' Marmora,' Williams answered. 'Just in the mouth o' it, so to speak. I expect the old man'll keep pushing along up the north coast, awaiting for them transports out o' the Bosphorus.'
'And you talk about its being dull, Roy?' said Ken with a laugh.
'Well, perhaps I spoke a bit hastily,' allowed Roy. 'I'll grant I'd like to see us get our own back on some of those Turkish blighters. I haven't forgotten last night yet, I can tell you.'
'You wait till we get our eyes on one, that's all,' said Williams,' and you won't wait much longer.'
But the wait lasted longer than Ken and Roy expected. All that day G2 cruised slowly back and forth between the big island of Marmora, where the marble quarries are, and the high coast of the European mainland, yet nothing rewarded her vigilant watch.
There was nothing to do but sit about and yarn, and more than once Roy told Ken that he wouldn't be a submarine sailor for any amount of 'hard lying' money.
It was about four in the afternoon, and Ken had been taking a quiet nap, for he had a lot of arrears of sleep to make up, when he was roused by a sudden sharp order from Lieutenant Strang.
In an instant the drowsy interior of G2 wakened into sudden life, and Ken, springing to his feet, moved forward to where Williams was standing near the forward periscope.
'What's up?' he asked in a quick undertone.
'Craft in sight. Can't tell what she is yet.'
'A warship?'
'Transport, most like, but can't say yet. Sit tight. I'll tell ye when I can see her a bit plainer.'
By the deeper hum of the engines, Ken knew that they had quickened their speed. There was a sort of suppressed eagerness about all the twenty-five men who composed the crew of the submarine. Ken longed to have a peep through the camera of the periscope, but knew it was impossible.
'She isn't much,' said Williams at last. 'Just a tramp of twelve or fourteen hundred tons. Still, she may ha' got troops aboard, and if she ain't, it's grub or munitions for them beggars in the peninsula.'
'Are we going to torpedo her?' asked Ken.
'Not likely. We ain't like Germans, as chucks away a thousand pound torpedo on a pore little fishing smack.'
'But we shan't let her go, surely?'
Williams chuckled. 'Bless your innocence, no! A couple o' shells from our little popper up topside will settle her hash all right.'
Another order echoed from aft. Strang's voice had a curious hollow sound, like a shout in a tunnel. Ken felt the vessel rising beneath him.
Men sprang up the steel ladder leading to the conning tower. A moment later the hatch flew open with a hollow clang, and the sea air gushed in, freshening delightfully the thick oily atmosphere below.
At the same moment power was switched off the electric engines, and the petrol motor broke into life with an appalling racket. The long, cigar-like vessel trembled under the increased power.
'Can't we go up on deck?' muttered Roy who had joined Ken.
Ken shook his head. He knew that this was impossible, yet all the same it was intolerably irksome to remain below without being able to see or take a hand in what was going on.
More orders, and presently the submarine came to rest, and lay, with hardly a movement, on the surface.
Williams turned and beckoned to Ken, and next moment Ken had his eyes glued to the binoculars. In the circle of sea thrown on the mirror, the first thing he saw was an untidy looking tramp, her rusty plates showing as she rolled slowly to the slight sea.
Aboard her all was wild excitement. Turkish sailors were hurriedly launching boats. Ken almost fancied he could hear the davits squeal as the boats were hastily lowered to the level of the sea. Evidently the men were in a desperate fright, for seldom had Ken seen the slack, leisurely Turks move with such speed.
We ain't hurrying 'em,' said Williams in Ken's ear. 'We've give 'em twenty minutes.' Here, let your chum have a squint.'
Ken made way for Roy, and as he did so there was a shout from aft.
'Commander wants Carrington.'
'You lucky beggar,' cried Roy, but Ken was gone like a flash.
'Get along up on deck, soldier,' said a bluejacket. ''E's up there.'
Ken was up the ladder almost before the man had finished speaking, and swinging out through the hatch dropped down on to the narrow deck beneath.
There were four men on the deck, namely Lieutenant Strang, his second in command, Sub-Lieutenant Hotham, and two who stood by the gun, a 12-pounder which had been raised from its snug niche in the deck, and was pointed full on the steamer.
The latter was nearer than Ken had thought, and by this time it seemed that her whole crew were in the boats, and the ship herself entirely deserted.
'Ah, Carrington,' said the commander. 'You're the man who talks Turkish. I can't quite make out whether the skipper of this old tub thinks his boats can make the shore or whether he wants a tow. Ask him, will you?'
The Turkish skipper, a greasy-looking ruffian, was in a boat close by. He was gesticulating wildly.
Ken at once hailed him, and asked the necessary question. The man burst into violent speech.
Ken listened, and there was a smile on his face as he turned to the commander.
'He's only swearing at us, sir, and asking what right we have to sink his ship.'
'Tell him he'd better inquire of Enver Bey,' was the grim reply, and Ken faithfully repeated the remark, only to hear a volley of curses called down on Enver's head as well as on his own.
'He can't do anything but swear, sir,' said Ken.
'Well, we've no time to waste,' said the officer impatiently. 'Tell him to clear out as quick as he can. I'm not going to waste shells on that thing. A charge of gun-cotton in her hold is all she's worth.'
With much bad language, the Turkish skipper cleared off, and the three boats containing himself and his crew pulled away in the direction of the land, which was just visible on the almost before the words left the commander's lips, and pulling like fury for the steamer.
'Make for the bows,' he heard Strang shout, and he did so.
The distance was nothing—merely a couple of hundred yards. He glanced round over his shoulder, and saw the rusty bows towering above him—saw, too, to his intense relief, that the old man had realised that he was to be rescued and was moving forward.
Ken shipped his sculls. The dinghy glided in under the tall side of the tramp. Ken stood up, and looked round for a rope. He could not see one. There seemed no way of climbing the perpendicular side of the vessel, yet it was quite clear that the old man could not get down unaided.
Ken saw his face appear over the rail. A gasp of astonishment came from his lips.
'Othman!' he exclaimed. 'It's Othman Pacha!'
It was Othman Pacha, his old friend, the very man who had saved him when his father was arrested. How had he come here? How was it he had been left alone to perish by the crew of the steamer? What did it all mean? These and a dozen other thoughts darted through Ken's brain with the swiftness of a lightning flash. But above them all came the desperate resolve to save the old man at all costs.
Othman could do nothing to help himself. That was clear on the face of it. Old and apparently ill, he seemed quite confused and helpless.
Just above his head Ken saw an open port. Standing on the thwart he just managed to reach it. With a desperate effort he drew himself up, and succeeded in getting foothold on the lower rim. There was no way of securing the boat. He had to trust to luck that she would remain where he had left her.
Quickly yet cautiously he raised himself again, and his clutching fingers met the stays of the foremast. Another big pull, and he was level with the rail.
The old Turk stood staring at him, but did not seem to recognise him, and naturally Ken did not wait to explain. Every instant he expected to see the decks burst upwards, and the whole ship fly to pieces. He knew that it could be only a matter of seconds before the explosion took place.
A rope—that was what he wanted most just at that moment, and luckily he had not far to go for one. An untidy coil of line lay close beside the forward hatch.
He sprang for it, whipped it up, and in a trice had put a loop in it, and made a double bight around Othman's body.
'Over you go, Pacha!' he said with a sharpness which at last reached the muddled brains of the poor old Turk.
Somehow he bundled him over the rail, and lowered him quickly yet carefully into the boat which fortunately remained where he had left it alongside.
'Cast off the rope, Pacha,' he shouted in an agony of impatience, and Othman fumblingly tried to obey. Ken saw that he would never do it in time, so rapidly made fast his own end to the rail, and giving one pull to tighten the knot, sprang over.
Fifteen seconds more and he would have been safe. But hardly were his legs over the rail when the explosion came. There was a stunning shock, the whole ship seemed to melt beneath him. A blast of hot air struck him, and the next thing he knew was struggling in the water.
For a second or two he felt half paralysed, and as if he could not use his muscles. He realised that he was sinking, and this gave him such a shock that somehow he managed to pull himself together and strike out.
He came to the surface, dashed the water from his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the dinghy. By a miracle, she was floating unharmed among a mass of wreckage, but Othman was not in her.
Ken looked round, and saw the old Pacha dangling in the water alongside the swaying steamer. He was tied to her by the rope of which one end was around his body, while the other was still fast to the ship's rail.
It was a ghastly fix, for it was clear that the steamer was sinking fast. Another moment, and down she would go, dragging the unfortunate old man with her and Ken too. He knew well enough that, as she sank, she was bound to pull him also down into the vortex, and that from this great eddy he would never have the strength to rise. His one chance for life was to swim away as hard as he could go.
But Ken was not the sort to leave a job half-done. It was both or neither, and treading water he fumbled frantically in his pockets for his knife.
With a sigh of relief, his fingers closed upon it; he whipped it out, and opening it with his teeth struck out with all his strength for Othman.
It is no easy matter to cut a slack rope with a small clasp knife, especially when the blade is none too sharp. Ken felt as though he would never get it through.
He heard shouts from the submarine, but could not distinguish words. The steamer was settling fast. Already her rail was almost level with the water.
The last strand parted, and dropping the knife, Ken seized Othman, who by this time was quite insensible, and made for the dinghy with all his remaining strength.
He reached it, and got one arm over the stern. But that was all he could do. It was out of the question for him to lift Othman into the boat. He could not even climb in himself. He was completely done, and could only hang on, panting so that every breath he drew was pain.
From the steamer came the sound of a fresh explosion. The air, confined below, was forcing up her decks. Ken knew that now it was only a question of seconds before she sank, knew, too, that escape was out of the question. The dinghy was bound to be drawn down, and it was not as if the submarine had a second boat which she could send to the rescue.
'All right, Ken. Hold tight. I've got you!'
It was Roy's cheery voice, and Ken suddenly realised that he was there in the water alongside.
'Look out!' Ken managed to gasp. 'You'll only be dragged down too.'
'Not a bit of it,' Roy answered, as he raised himself and caught hold of the boat. 'Don't you worry, old man. I've a rope round me. I'll hold her.'
'Ah, there she goes!' he exclaimed, and as he spoke there was a queer sucking sound, and Ken felt the boat whirl away in the direction of the sinking steamer.
For some seconds it seemed as if he, Othman, and all would be ripped away from the boat by the tremendous suction. Great eddies boiled and swirled in every direction, and a thick scum of oil and coal dust rose and covered the surface of the sea.
'Hold on!' he heard Roy shout again, and somehow he did, though his right arm felt as though it were being torn from its socket.
At last the commotion ceased, the eddies disappeared, and the strain slackened.
'Thank goodness, that's the last of her,' said Roy, with a sigh of relief. 'Jove, but I couldn't have stuck it much longer. That rope round my waist has nearly cut me in two. How are you making it, old man?'
'I'm all right,' Ken answered, but his voice was so weak it scared Roy.
'Here, hand over his Nibs,' he said, as he moved round and took Othman from Ken. 'Now,' he said, 'just hang on a few minutes longer, and they'll pull us in.'
He raised one arm as a signal, the rope tightened gently, and the dinghy and the three holding to it were towed quickly back to the submarine.
Roy handed up Othman and scrambled out himself but they had to lift Ken out of the water. Once on deck, however, he insisted on scrambling to his feet.
'Not damaged?' inquired Lieutenant Strang with a touch of anxiety in his voice.
'Not a bit, sir,' Ken answered.
'I congratulate you, Carrington. It was an uncommon good and plucky bit of work, and I shall see that it is reported to your own commanding officer.'
Ken went below, tingling with a pleasure which made him forget his aching joints and muscles.
'Yes, come in.'
Lieutenant Strang, busy plotting out something on a chart, looked up as the sentry parted the curtains of his cabin.
'Can Corporal Carrington see you, sir?' asked the man.
'Certainly. Send him in.'
Ken, looking more like himself in his khaki, which was now thoroughly dried, entered and saluted.
'Well, Carrington, what is it?' The commander's tone was quick, almost curt, yet there was a smile on his keen face as his eyes fell on Ken's upright figure.
'I've been talking to Othman Pacha, sir,' began Ken.
'Othman Pacha—who the deuce is he?'
'The Turk we rescued, sir. He's a friend of mine. I mentioned his name to you this morning. It was he who got me away into Greece when my father was arrested.'
'Of course. I remember now. But this is a most extraordinary coincidence—to find him on that tramp.'
'Not so much so as you might think, sir. You see he is known to be no friend to Enver Bey and the Young Turks. He was in danger of arrest, so he took the first opportunity of clearing out. He was going over to Adramyti on the Asiatic side, so as to get out of it all.'
'I see. Well, did he tell you anything useful?'
'He did, sir. You have heard that Enver Bey has informed our Chief Command that he intends to send French and British subjects to Gallipoli, so that they will be the first sufferers when we bombard the place.'
'Yes, I've heard that,' Strang answered, staring keenly at Ken.
'Well, sir, the Pacha says that the first lot is to leave Constantinople to-morrow. They are going with a batch of troops in a transport called the "Bergaz."'
'And,' he added—'my father will be with them.'
The commander of G2 pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
'By Jove,' he said slowly, 'this is worth hearing. This is most interesting.'
He gave a low chuckle. 'Rather a smack in the eye for friend Enver if we can bring it off. Tell me, Carrington, did the Pacha say whether this trooper would have an escort?'
'I asked him that, sir, but he did not know. And he said this—That he would not have told us at all except for the fact that he thinks it brutal of Enver to send civilians into the firing line, and that he hopes, in case you find it necessary to sink the trooper, that you will allow the men to escape with their lives.'
Strang nodded thoughtfully.
'Hm, yes, I suppose I shall have to do that. After all, they won't be much use without rifles or kit, and the chances are that most of 'em will desert as soon as they reach the shore.
'But we mustn't count our chickens before they're hatched, eh, Carrington? We've got to find that transport before we can deal with her.'
He asked a few more questions, then dismissed Ken.
'You can tell the Pacha I shall respect his wishes,' he said, as Ken left his cabin.
All that night G2 cruised on the surface, going only at half speed so as to economise petrol, and at the same time re-charge her dynamos. As for Ken, tired out with his exertions, he lay upon the throbbing steel floor, wrapped in a blanket, and slept as peacefully as he had ever slept in his life.
It was broad day when he woke, feeling more refreshed than for days past, and quite ready for the plain though plentiful breakfast that was served out.
A glance which Williams allowed him through the periscope showed an expanse of bright blue sea sparkling under a clear sky and a light breeze, but with no sail in sight, and shortly afterwards G2 was submerged until nothing but her periscope remained above the surface.
By this time the rumour of the expected trooper was all through the little ship, and there was an air of subdued excitement on every face.
'Where are we now?' asked Ken of Williams.
'Somewhere between Marmora Island and Rodosto. Whatever comes out o' the Bosphorus for the Dardanelles is bound to run past us, and then—' A wink said more than words.
The hours dragged by, and Roy began to growl again at the tediousness of life beneath the ocean wave. Dinner time passed and still there was no sign of the trooper.
'Looks to me as if news had got abroad that we're a waiting for 'em,' growled Williams at last. 'Them chaps as got to land last night must ha' wired to headquarters.'
The other coxswain who was at the periscope at the moment, looked up.
'Then the wires must ha' been down, Joe. She's a coming right now.'
'Let's have a look,' exclaimed Williams, springing across.
'Ay, you're right, Bill. There she is. A big un, too!'
'And, lumme,' he added with a growl, 'a blighted torpedo boat a escorting of her!'
''Tis only one o' them tin Turkish rattle-traps,' said Bill with a pitying air. 'The old man'll slap a tin fish into her afore she knows what's hit her.'
As he spoke, the engines were already quickening, and G2 had begun to glide away at the top speed of her powerful electrics. The deep hum of the dynamos filled the long interior, and on every face was a look of eager expectancy.
As for Ken, his heart was throbbing like the dynamos themselves. The feeling that his father, whom he had hardly hoped ever to see again, was within a mile or so, had plunged him into such a state of tense excitement that it was all he could do to control it.
He turned to speak to Williams, but the latter had gone forward, and was standing by the torpedo in the fore tube.
The other coxswain, too, had gone to his place, and Sub-Lieutenant Hotham had taken his seat at the forward periscope.
For four minutes, which seemed to Ken like four hours, the submarine drove onwards in silence. Then came a sharp order from the commander, and she began to rise.
'What's she coming up for?' asked Roy of Ken in a low voice.
'She's got to, so as to fire her torpedo. You can't fire so long as you're submerged.'
'But if they see us, they'll let loose with their guns.'
'They've only got the periscopes to shoot at. Take more than Turkish gunners to hit them.'
'Stand by!' came the crisp order from Commander Strang. 'Three points to port—one more. Don't miss her, whatever you do, Williams. She's got the legs of us, and we shan't get a second shot.'
'That's right. Steady now. Shut down! Let go!'
Ken heard a sharp hiss as the compressed air drove the long gray Whitehead out of its tube, and sent it flashing away on its deadly errand. Young Hotham sat still as a statue, his eyes glued to the periscope. The rest of the crew seemed hardly to breathe. As for Ken, his mouth was dry. To him, more than to any one else aboard, the success or failure of the shot meant much.
Five, ten, fifteen seconds—then Hotham gave a sharp cry.
'Got her. Got her, by the living jingo! Oh, good shot, Williams!'
As he spoke a dull shock made the whole hull of G2 quiver.
'Hurrah!' shouted Ken, and the cheer was echoed by a score of voices.
'Struck her just aft the engines,' exclaimed Hotham jubilantly. 'Settled her hash all right. Gad, they've got pluck. They're still shooting. Ah, did you hear that, Carrington?'—as the submarine quivered again slightly. 'That was a shell. It struck the water not ten yards away.'
'But that's the last,' he continued. 'She's cocking her bows up. Phew, the whole bottom's knocked out of her. There she goes. She's sinking. Poor beggars, they haven't time to get out a boat, and we'll never reach 'em in time to save any of them.'
'Her stern's under. Bow's straight up in the air!' He paused a moment.
'All over,' he added quietly. 'She's gone.' Commander Strang's voice rang out from farther aft. Ken felt the vessel rising, and a few moments later a slight swaying told that she was on the surface. Up went the hatch, and the terrible clatter of the petrol engines replaced the deep purr of the dynamos.
'I'd give a finger to be on deck,' said Ken to Roy, and for once Roy did not jeer. He merely nodded, for he knew how desperately anxious Ken was about his father.
Ken had not long to wait. A few minutes later, an order was passed for Carrington to go up, and Ken darted up the steel ladder like a lamplighter.
Outside, he found the sun gone, the sky covered with clouds, and a threat of rain in the cool air. But it was not the weather he thought of. His eyes were at once fixed upon a large steamer about two miles off to the southward. Clouds of sooty smoke were pouring from her funnels, and a yeasty wake trailed away behind her. Taking warning by the fate of her escort, she was doing all she knew to escape.
'Will she beat us? Will she get away?' Ken asked anxiously of one of the gun crew.
'Will she spread her little wings an' turn into a waterplane?' replied the man with a grin. 'Bless you, soldier, she couldn't do more'n fourteen knots when she come out o' the builder's yard, and that's two more'n she's going now. You watch an' see how far she gets away.'
A very few moments' watching was enough to convince Ken that G2 was overhauling her prey hand over fist. Within less than a quarter of an hour a mile of the steamer's lead had gone. Another five minutes and the distance between the two was barely twelve hundred yards.
'Hallo, they're getting gay!' remarked the big bluejacket, as rifles began to spit and bullets to throw up little jets of spray around the rushing submarine.
Presently one clanged against the conning tower itself. Commander Strang gave an order, and a little row of bunting ran up on the tiny mast of the submarine.
'"Heave to, or I'll sink you," that means,' observed Ken's friend.
The only response was a thicker hail of bullets. But the low deck of G2, flying onwards as she was at about twenty-two land miles an hour, made a poor target, and the Turks failed to do any damage beyond knocking a little paint off.
'Confound 'em!' growled Strang. 'They haven't got sense enough to come in out of the rain. Give 'em a shell, Watson.'
The long gray 12-pounder was ready. Her vicious-looking muzzle swung round. There was a ringing bang, and the shell, small but charged with deadly lyddite, spun away on its errand.