Charred papers still smoking.
“If I’d got down a minute earlier, sir, he wouldn’t have had a chance to have that nice little bonfire,” grumbled the corporal.
Dave gave a great start as he took his first look at the face of the German captain.
As for the German, he seemed at least equally disconcerted. Dave Darrin was the first to recover.
“I cannot say that I think your German uniform becoming to a man of your name, Mr. Matthews,” Darrin uttered, in savage banter.
“Matthews?” repeated the German, in a puzzled voice, though he spoke excellent English. “I cannot imagine why you should apply that name to me.”
“It’s your own fault if you can’t,” Darrin retorted. “It’s the name you gave me at the hotel.”
“I’ve never seen you until the present moment,” declared the German, stoutly.
“Surely you have,” Danny Grin broke in. “And how is your firm in Chicago, Mr. Matthews?”
“Chicago?” repeated the German, apparently more puzzled than before.
“If Matthews isn’t your name, and I believe it isn’t,” Darrin continued, “by what name do you prefer to be addressed.”
“I am Ober-Lieutenant von Bechtold,” replied the German.
“Very good, von Bechtold; will you stand back a bit and not bother the corporal?”
Dave bent over to stir the charred, smoking heap of paper with his foot. But the job had been too thoroughly done. Not a scrap of white paper could be found in the heap.
“Of course you do not object to telling me what papers you succeeded in burning,” Darrin bantered.
Ober-Lieutenant von Bechtold smiled.
“You wouldn’t believe me, if I told you, so why tax your credulity?” came his answer.
“Perhaps you didn’t have time to destroy all your records,” Dave went on. “Under the circumstances I know you will pardon me for searching the boat.”
Thrusting aside a curtain, Dave entered a narrow passageway near the stern. Off this passageway were the doors of two sleeping cabins on either side. Dave opened the doors on one side and glanced in. Dan opened one on the other side, but the second door resisted his efforts.
“This locked cabin may contain whatever might be desired to conceal,” Dan hinted.
Turning quickly, Darrin saw that von Bechtold had followed. This the corporal had permitted, but he and a marine private had followed, to keep their eyes on the prisoner.
“If you have the key to this locked door, Captain, it will save us the trouble of smashing the door,” Dave warned. He had followed the usual custom in terming the ober-lieutenant a captain since he had an independent naval command.
“I do not know where the key is,” replied von Bechtold, carelessly. “You may break the door down, if you wish, but you will not be repaid for your trouble.”
“I’ll take the trouble, anyway,” Darrin retorted. “Mr. Dalzell, your shoulder and mine both together.”
As the two young officers squared themselves for the assault on the door a black cloud appeared briefly on von Bechtold’s face. But as Darrin turned, after the first assault, the deep frown was succeeded by a dark smile of mockery.
Bump! bump! At the third assault the lock of the door gave way so that Dave and Dan saved themselves from pitching into the room headfirst.
“Oh, whew!” gasped Danny Grin.
An odor as of peach-stone kernels assailed their nostrils. They thought little of this. It was a sight, rather than the odor, that instantly claimed their attention.
For on the berth, over the coverlid, and fully dressed in civilian attire of good material, lay a man past fifty, stout and with prominent abdomen. He was bald-headed, the fringe of hair at the sides being strongly tinged with gray.
At first glance one might have believed the stranger to be merely asleep, though he would have been a sound sleeper who could slumber on while the door was crashing in. Dave stepped close to the berth.
Dalzell followed, and after them came the submarine’s commander.
“You will go back to the cabin and remain there, Mr. von Bechtold,” Dave directed, without too plain discourtesy. “Corporal, detail one of your men to remain with the prisoner, and see that he doesn’t come back here unless I send for him. Also see to it that he doesn’t do anything else except wait.”
Scowling, von Bechtold withdrew, the marine following at his heels.
As Darrin stepped back into the cabin he saw the stranger lying as they left him.
“Dead!” uttered Dave, bending over the man and looking at him closely. “He lay down for a nap. Look, Dan, how peaceful his expression is. He never had an intimation that it was his last sleep, though this looks like suicide, not accidental death, for the peach-stone odor is that of prussic acid. He has killed himself with a swift poison. Why? Is it that he feared to fall into enemy hands and be quizzed?”
“A civilian, and occupying an officer’s cabin,” Dan murmured. “He must have been of some consequence, to be a passenger on a submarine. He wasn’t a man in the service, or he would have been in uniform.”
“We’ll know something about him, soon, I fancy,” Darrin went on. “Here is a wallet in his coat pocket, also a card case and an envelope well padded with something. Yes,” glancing inside the envelope, “papers. I think we’ll soon solve the secret of this civilian passenger who has met an unplanned death.”
“Here, you! Stop that, or I’ll shoot!” sounded, angrily, the voice of von Bechtold’s guard behind them.
But the German officer, regardless of threats, had dashed past the marine, and was now in the passageway.
“Here, I’ll soon settle you!” cried the marine, wrathfully. But he didn’t, for von Bechtold let a solid fist fly, and the marine, caught unawares, was knocked to the floor.
All in a jiffy von Bechtold reached his objective, the envelope. Snatching it, he made a wild leap back to the cabin, brushing the marine private aside like a feather.
“Grab him!” yelled Dave Darrin, plunging after the German. “Don’t let him do anything to that envelope!”
Fortune has a way of favoring the bold. The corporal and a marine were in the corridor behind Darrin. The ober-lieutenant’s special guard had been hurled aside.
Hearing the outcries, the other two marines in the cabin sprang toward the German officer. One of these von Bechtold tripped and sent sprawling; the other he struck in the chest, pushing him back.
Just an instant later von Bechtold went down on his back, all five of the marines doing their best to get at him in the same second. But the German had had time to knock the lid from a battery cell and to plunge the envelope into the liquid contained in the jar. Then the German was sent to the mat by his assailants.
Darrin, following, his whole thought on the envelope, plunged his right hand down into the fluid, gripping the package that had been snatched from him.
“Sulphuric acid!” he exclaimed, and made a quick dive for a lidded fire bucket that rested in a rack. The old-fashioned name for sulphuric acid is vitriol, and its powers in eating into human flesh are well known. Darrin’s left hand sent the lid of the bucket flying. Hand and envelope were thrust into the water with which, fortunately, the bucket was filled. When sulphuric acid in quantity is added to water heat is generated, but a small quantity of the acid may be washed from the flesh with water to good advantage if done instantly. After a brief washing of the hand Dave drew it out, patting it dry with a handkerchief. Thus the hand, though reddened, was saved from painful injury. The envelope he allowed to remain in the water for some moments.
“Von Bechtold, you are inclined to be a nuisance here,” Darrin said coolly. “I am going to direct these men to take you above.”
“I am helpless,” replied the German, sullenly, from the floor, where he now lay passive, two marines sitting on him ready to renew the struggle if he so desired.
“Take him above, you two men,” Darrin ordered, “and take especial pains to see that he doesn’t try to escape by jumping into the water.”
At this significant remark von Bechtold paled noticeably for a moment. Then his ruddy color came back. He got upon his feet with a resentful air but did not resist the marines who conducted him up to the deck.
Dave now drew out the envelope, which had become well soaked, and took out the enclosure, a single sheet. The writing at the top of the sheet was obliterated. Darrin did not read German fluently, but at the bottom of the sheet he found a few words and phrases that he was able to translate. Their meaning made him gasp.
“Danny-boy,” he murmured to his chum, “I want you to make quick work of transferring the prisoners to the ‘Logan.’ Keep back two of the German engineer crew, and send word to Ensign Phelps to come over on the launch’s next trip with two men of our engine-room force, and to bring along also six seamen and a petty officer. Phelps will take charge of this craft as prize officer.”
The submarine was soon cleared of her officers and crew. Ensign Phelps and his own men came over and took command. Two German engine-room men had been kept back to assist the Americans. On the last trip Darrin and Dalzell returned to the undersea boat and gave the order to Ensign Phelps to proceed on his way to the base port.
As soon as the prize with its captors was under way, Darrin went to the chart-room of the “Logan,” sent for the marine corporal, and ordered that Ober-Lieutenant von Bechtold be brought before him.
As the prisoner was ushered in Dave rose courteously, bowed and pointed to a chair.
“Be seated, if you please. Now, Herr Ober-Lieutenant, your second-in-command and your crew will be taken ashore as ordinary prisoners of war, and turned over to the British military prison authorities. Of course you are aware that your own imprisonment will take place under somewhat different circumstances.”
Von Bechtold, who had accepted the proffered chair, gazed stolidly at this American naval commander, who was several years younger than himself.
“I fear that I do not understand you,” the German replied.
“You soon will, for you speak excellent English,” Darrin returned, with a chilly smile. “Your English does not have exactly the Chicago accent, but it was good enough for your purposes. The Chicagoan speaks with a sort of sub-Bostonese accent, as perhaps you did not know. Your own English has rather the sound of Oxford or Cambridge University in England.”
Opening his eyes wide, and expressing bewilderment, the German begged:
“Will you be good enough to speak more explicitly?”
“Certainly,” Dave assented. “When you are turned over to the British military authorities it will be done with a card showing that you now give the name of von Bechtold——”
“Which is my right name,” interposed the German officer, tartly.
“And the card will also state that, a few days ago, you gave the name of Matthews.”
“Again you use that name of Matthews,” cried von Bechtold, impatiently. “May I ask why?”
“I will make it so clear,” Dave promised him, “that you would understand even though what I am about to say were not true. But it is true. A few days ago you met me at the hotel in port. You met also my executive officer, Mr. Dalzell. You introduced yourself to us as Matthews, claimed to be a buyer for a Chicago dry-goods house, and declared that your mission was to buy linen.”
“Not a word of truth in it,” declared von Bechtold, calmly, with a wave of his hand, as though to brush aside the charge.
“Unfortunately, quite true,” Dave went on, steadily. “You were there under an assumed name and claimed to be an American citizen. You exhibited an American passport; I have heard that your government has a printing office where such documents are turned out. You were there out of uniform. In other words, sir, your conduct on British soil, in civilian dress and under false colors, met with all the requirements of proof that you were there as a spy. It has long been known to the British, and to us, that German spies have abounded in Great Britain and that they obtained a good deal of information that we would rather German submarine commanders did not possess. So, Mr. von-Bechtold-Matthews, it will be my disagreeable duty to hand you over with the charge that you have been serving as a spy. Dalzell and I will be obliged to testify against you. I much fear that a British court-martial will condemn you to be shot.”
“What infamous lie is this that you are threatening to utter against me?” demanded the German officer, leaping to his feet.
“No lie at all, as you know quite well,” Dave went on. “I am sorry to have to bring you to this plight, von Bechtold, but you know that I cannot do otherwise.”
Gazing into the steady eyes of the young American naval officer von Bechtold realized the folly of further acting. Breathing hard, he dropped into a chair.
“It is not a fine thing that you propose to do to me,” he declared. “You do not know, of course, that I have five young children at home, who will need a father.”
“I did not know it,” Dave answered gently. “Yet I feel quite certain that some of the information you have gathered, when ashore in these parts, has resulted in the drowning at sea of a good many men who may have left behind even more than five children.”
“I feel that I am doomed,” shuddered the German, throwing a hand up over his eyes. “My five little children will not see their father again—not even when this war is over.”
“It is too bad,” Dave answered, “but I suppose, Herr Ober-Lieutenant, that it must be classed with the fortune of war. Now, as to the identity of the civilian who lies dead in a berth aboard your late command, it may be that, if you were ready to tell something about the reasons for his presence on board, and why he had in his possession this paper——”
Here Darrin spread out the wet sheet of paper that he had brought from the submarine.
“I can tell you nothing about either the civilian or that paper,” declared von Bechtold, doggedly.
“That is your own affair,” Darrin admitted. “I shall not make any attempt to force you.”
“You had better not!” declared the German, fiercely. “I can die, but I cannot betray my country. Yet have you no heart?—when I tell you about my five little children whom you would deny the privilege of ever seeing their father again?”
“If I were to suppress my report of your activities as a spy,” Darrin continued, “I would be guilty of betraying my country and my country’s allies. It would also be necessary for me to induce my subordinate officer to do the same thing. You will realize the impossibility of our doing such a thing. On the other hand, between now and the time that you are tried by court-martial you will have time to reflect upon whether you wish to try to save yourself from the death sentence by explaining to the British authorities the full meaning of what had been written on this sheet of paper and also the reasons for that civilian being aboard your craft. Then, by throwing yourself on the mercy of the court, you might escape the full penalty meted out to a spy.”
“I shall not do it,” declared von Bechtold, rising and drawing himself to his full height.
“Nor do I believe I could be induced to tell what I knew if I stood in your boots. Orderly!”
To the marine who entered Dave gave the order to summon the guard. Von Bechtold was taken back to the “Logan’s” brig, and locked in for absolutely safe keeping. Darrin went up to the bridge.
“Do you feel sorry for the fellow?” asked Dalzell, when he had heard an account of the interview.
“No more sorry than I do for any man who is down and out,” Dave replied, truthfully. “Now that he is captured and his spy work ended, I believe that ships on these waters will be much safer.”
“He will be just one Hun less, after a firing squad has finished with him,” Dan rejoined.
Dave nodded thoughtfully.
“War breeds savage ideas, doesn’t it?” demanded Danny Grin, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Not breeds, but brings out,” answered Darrin.
They were nearing the coast now. Destroyers, patrol boats, drifters and mine-sweeping craft sighted the “Logan” and her prize, and the shrill whistles of these hunters of the sea testified to their joy over the capture.
Then the destroyer and her prize entered the port. Darrin brought his craft to anchorage, while the captured submarine was anchored not far away. The German prisoners were taken ashore under guard and turned over to the British authorities.
Ober-Lieutenant von Bechtold, under the charge of being a spy, was marched away under a special guard.
And then Dave made haste to present himself, with the half-destroyed sheet of paper in his pocket, before the flag lieutenant of Vice Admiral Speare.
There was much joy aboard a squadron of six more destroyers, just arrived from Uncle Sam’s country, when, on steaming into port, they heard the news of the capture.
So far as Dave was concerned the document that he had discovered, mutilated as it was, had supplied hints that filled the British Admiralty and the American naval commander with deep apprehension.
Both Darrin and Dalzell were present in the crowded council room on board the vice admiral’s flagship. There were other American naval officers, as well as a few American Army staff officers present. Their faces displayed anxiety.
“It is too bad,” one of the American army staff officers declared, after scanning the damaged sheet under a magnifying glass, “that so much of this is obliterated. Of course, Mr. Darrin, we know that you acted promptly and that you did all in your power, and at considerable risk, to preserve this document. From the disconnected sentences that we can decipher, it would seem that at least sixty of the enemy’s submarines are to concentrate in near-by waters. It is also plain that their mission is to destroy the convoy escort and sink the troopships that are nearing these waters—troopships that convey the entire One Hundred and Seventeenth Division of the United States Army.”
“It would be a frightful disaster, if it came to pass,” boomed the deep tones of a British naval officer.
“It shall not come to pass!” declared an American naval officer.
“Easily said, and I hope as easily done,” replied the British officer. “But you Americans have not yet begun to lose ships loaded with troops. We Britishers have had some sad experiences in that line. Never as yet, though, have we had to face a concentration of sixty enemy submarines!”
“The way it looks to me,” said another American army staff officer, gravely, “is that, while the destroyer escort will surely sink some of the enemy submarines, yet just as surely, with the enemy in such force, will some of our troopships go to the bottom. It is mainly, as I view it, a question of how many troopships we are likely to lose, and how big a loss of soldier life we shall suffer.”
“Sixty submarines!” uttered a British naval officer, savagely. “We haven’t an officer on a destroyer who wouldn’t gladly go to the bottom if he could first have the pleasure of sinking a few of these deep-sea pests!”
“A distressing feature is that we cannot decipher the very part of this document which states where the submarine concentration is expected to strike,” declared a naval staff officer.
“How many British destroyers will be needed to reinforce the available American destroyers?” asked a British officer, apprehensively. “For we have so many uses for our destroyers, on other work, that it is difficult to guess where we are to find destroyers enough to help you Americans.”
This was known, by all present, to be only too true. The British Navy, from super-dreadnoughts to the smallest steam trawlers, was painfully overloaded with work.
“As Mr. Darrin is a destroyer commander with an uncommonly good record to his credit,” said an American naval staff officer, “and as we have not yet heard his opinion, I think we would all like to have his views.”
Dave Darrin glanced at the American naval commander, who sent him an encouraging nod.
“We know, then, gentlemen,” began Dave, “just how many American destroyers are to act as escort to the troopship fleet that is bringing the One Hundred and Seventeenth Division across. We know, also, just how many destroyers under our flag can be taken from patrol duty to safeguard the troopship fleet. We know the length of the sailing line of the troopship fleet; we know the speed of our destroyers. It seems to me that the answer is to be found in these known facts.”
“What is your suggestion as to the plan, then?” asked an officer.
“Gentlemen, in the presence of so many officers of wider experience and greater knowledge, I feel embarrassed to find myself speaking.”
“Go on!” cried several.
Darrin still hesitated.
“First of all, Mr. Darrin, in offering your suggestion, tell us what number of British destroyers you believe that you will need to reinforce the American destroyers that are available for protecting your troopship fleet,” urged one.
Dave still hesitated, though not from shyness. He did some rapid calculating as to the length of the line of troopships sailing in the regular order. Then he figured out how many destroyers could give efficient protection against sixty German submarines.
There was tense silence in the council room. At last Darrin looked up.
“Well,” demanded the insistent British naval staff officer, “how many of our British destroyers do you think, Darrin, are needed to help out your American destroyers?”
Dave turned his face toward the American vice admiral.
“Sir, and gentlemen,” he replied, “if we had three times as many destroyers we could use them. I have an opinion on the subject, but it will sound so childish to you that I should prefer to sit back and let older heads offer suggestions.”
“Darrin,” spoke the flag lieutenant, after a nudge and a whispered word from the vice admiral, “this is no question of age, nor is it wholly a question of experience. Demonstrated ability, ability backed by a record, is entitled to a hearing here. You have done your figuring, and you have reached certain conclusions. How many British destroyers do you believe we shall need to help out the American destroyer fleet that is now available?”
This amounted almost to an order to speak up. Dave reddened perceptibly, opened his mouth as though to speak, closed it again, then cleared his throat and called out steadily:
“Sir, and gentlemen, it is my opinion that the American naval forces available for the work can do all the work! I do not believe that we need an ounce of British help that would be so graciously extended if we asked for it!”
There was a moment’s silence.
“No help needed from us?” demanded the British naval staff officer.
“It would be welcome, sir,” Dave declared, “but you cannot spare the help. Whatever assistance you gave us at this time would weaken your lines of defense or offense at some other point. They are American soldiers who are to be protected, and——”
Here Darrin’s voice failed him for a moment. He felt as though the more than score of pairs of eyes that were regarding him sharply were burning him. He swallowed hard, but returned to the charge and went on, slowly, in words that rapped like machine-gun fire:
“I would stake my soul that the American Navy can safeguard the passage of the One Hundred and Seventeenth Division of the American Army!”
There was a gasp. The words were bold, but, if true, they solved a vexing problem. The spirit of the United States Navy had spoken through Dave Darrin’s lips.
“Darrin,” shouted an American staff officer, bringing a fist down on the table, then springing to his feet, “you’ve answered for us! You’ve given us our chart. I’d trust the best troopship fleet we’ll ever send over the ocean to the guarding care of a dozen young Yankee naval commanders of your stripe.”
In an instant the enthusiasm became infectious. A cheer arose, in which the vice admiral joined. The British naval officer of the booming tones left his seat and went over to grasp Dave’s hand.
“Darrin, I wish we had you in our Navy!” he said, simply.
There was little more left to be agreed upon. It was decided, however, that a combined fleet of British and American patrol boats should be in readiness to swoop down and save lives in case any of the American troopships should be torpedoed.
The council soon broke up. All that was now left to be done was for the vice admiral and his immediate staff to formulate the exact plans for the protection of the One Hundred and Seventeenth Division. Even after the destroyer fleet had turned itself loose on its task, further instructions could be sent in wireless code.
“Gentlemen,” said the vice admiral, rising, “I thank you for your attendance, for your consideration of the problem, and for whatever help you have been able to extend. And I can see no objection,” he added, a twinkle in his eyes, “to your giving three cheers for Lieutenant-Commander Darrin.”
Proud? Not a bit. As the volleys of cheers rang out deafeningly, Dave Darrin felt as though he would enjoy sinking through the deck.
But Danny Grin was there, and he undertook the job of feeling proud for his chum.
Out upon the tossing sea once more. It was a wonder that the “Logan” did not sit much deeper in the water, for she carried a most unusual load of ammunition of every useful kind.
Out upon the sea, and seemingly alone at that. Not a sail was visible to the officers on the taut little destroyer, not a trail of smoke appeared on any part of the horizon. Indeed, the present speed and low fuel consumption aboard the “Logan” allowed only the thinnest wisps of smoke to issue from the raking funnels of the destroyer.
Had Dave needed other destroyer company, for any urgent reason, a signal snapping from his radio aerials would bring one, perhaps two, American destroyers to him within an hour. For some of these bulldog little fighting craft, that were out after the deep-sea pests, were capable of making more than thirty knots an hour.
The “Logan” had been out four days. Though headed westward at this moment, she had not been moving steadily westward, for she was now not more than three hundred and thirty miles west of the coast of Ireland.
On this fourth day, as on its predecessors, the destroyer steamed along at cruising speed. Though the crew knew nothing of Germany’s proposed big submarine drive directed at the troopships conveying the One Hundred and Seventeenth Division, yet every marine and sailor felt that something unusual was in the wind. The lookouts had been instructed to aid their vision by the free use of their marine glasses and precautions out of the ordinary had been taken in other directions.
“The Germans are using a new submarine periscope, slimmer than any that they have heretofore employed. They hoist it for only a few seconds at a time and do not send it as far out of the water as they did with the old style periscope. The man who sights a periscope in time will save our ship.”
That was the word constantly passed about by the “Logan’s” officers. Every sailor hoped that he might be the lucky one to discover a periscope in time to lead to the bombing of one of the pests.
Dave had reached the bridge at seven bells. Dalzell was now below, sleeping as soundly as though he were back in the old home town of Gridley. Lieutenant Curtin was on the bridge watch.
“It’s odd, Mr. Curtin, that we haven’t sighted a submarine in four days; that we haven’t had the slightest visible reason to suspect the presence of one,” Dave remarked to his subordinate officer.
“Very likely, sir, we’re too far out,” Curtin replied.
“Yet we have every reason to believe that they’ve extended the danger zone further westward,” Darrin continued.
“That’s the belief of the fleet commander,” Curtin answered, “but there’s always a chance of his having guessed wrong. Why isn’t it just as probable,” he added, in a much lower tone, “that the Huns have decided to have a try at the troopship fleet fairly close to land?”
“It wouldn’t be likely,” Dave went on, in an equally low tone. “For one thing, Mr. Curtin, the enemy would want their first try farther out. Then, if they missed, they’d have another chance, perhaps, closer to land.”
“If they missed on their first try, the Huns would have to run their submersibles on the surface in order to overtake the troopship fleet for another chance. They couldn’t travel under water and overtake the troopship fleet.”
“Quite right,” Darrin admitted in a whisper. “Still, I see another answer to the problem. Of the sixty submersibles believed to be on the job twenty may have been sent far to the westward, the other forty remaining nearer to the coast. The twenty submarines could make a desperate try. Then, if they failed, the remaining forty could take up the job closer to shore.”
“Then you don’t believe all the German submarines engaged are concentrated at one point, sir?”
“Impossible to say,” Darrin rejoined. “I don’t like to form opinions on any subject without facts to go on.”
“It’s strange; not a steamer sighted today,” Lieutenant Curtin resumed, after a few moments’ scanning of the sea. “During our first three days out we met plenty of armed freighters. Today, not a sail or a stack sighted. Can it be that the subs are further west, and that they’ve overhauled and sunk several freighters?”
“We’ve heard no appeals for help. Every freighter carries wireless apparatus in these days,” Dave argued.
“True, but sometimes the torpedo shock puts a ship’s radio out of commission from the moment of impact.”
“I do not believe that the freighters are being bothered,” Dave announced. “Granted that there are undoubtedly subs enough in these waters to raise the mischief with cargo steamers. If the subs didn’t have the luck to silence the wireless outfits on the cargo steamers at the first shot, there would be chance of word reaching the troopships of unusual danger, and that would lead to redoubled vigilance on the part of the destroyer escorts. My belief, Mr. Curtin, is that the cargo boats will have a rest until the fate of the troopship fleet has been decided.”
“Then you believe, sir, that the absence of cargo boats today is due to——”
“Probably due to the fact that there was one slack day in clearing cargo boats at American ports, and also because of an equally slack day in British ports.”
Then fell silence. Both drowsy, despite their realization of the need of keeping awake and on the alert, both young officers moved about on the bridge, ever maintaining a sharp lookout.
They were still pacing back and forth when the sun went down below the horizon toward the distant United States. Lieutenant Beatty, fresh from a sleep, came up on the bridge, saluting his commander.
“Mr. Beatty, you’ve no other duty at present,” Darrin greeted him. “Will you do an extra bit and remain on the bridge with Curtin?”
“I’ll be very glad to, sir, for I’m feeling fit after my sleep,” replied the lieutenant, heartily.
“I’m going below for a brief doze in my chair. If I’m wanted, call down to some one to rouse me. I’ll sleep for an hour or so. But be sure, Mr. Curtin, to see to it that I’m called if anything happens, no matter how slight an occurrence it may seem to be.”
“Very good, sir,” from the smiling Curtin.
“And glad I am to give the ‘Old Man’ a bit of a relief,” quoth Beatty to his brother officer. “I never knew a commander before who spent so much of his time on deck or bridge, except in a gale. Mr. Darrin doesn’t appear to think that he needs more than a third as much sleep as other persons require.”
“He told me to call him in an hour or so,” grinned Lieutenant Curtin. “Unless something turns up his instructions will allow me to let him doze at least two hours.”
No sooner had Darrin doffed cap and sheepskin and settled back in his chair than his eyes closed and he was cruising in the Land of Nod.
Nor did he stir enough to wake until an orderly, sent from the bridge, entered and shook his right arm.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the sailor. “The officer of the deck wants to know if you wish to be called now.”
“In another hour,” said Darrin, drowsily, and dozed off again.
Which message was received with high glee by the two conspirators for Dave’s comfort when they received the news on the bridge.
“Only one drawback to it, Curtin,” said Beatty. “When the ‘Old Man’ finally wakes he’ll imagine he can stand watch for twenty-four hours without more sleep.”
“Maybe, by that time, he’ll have to,” retorted Curtin. “So we’ll let him gather in all the rest that he can get now.”
And Darrin slept that added hour. When called the next time he rose straight to his feet.
“It was stupid of me not to wake an hour ago,” Dave reproached himself, after glancing at the clock over the desk. “But just look at dear old Danny-boy! He’s slept nearly twice as long as I have. If things remain dull this evening I won’t have him called, either. He needs the rest, poor old chap!”
Donning cap and short coat the youthful commander went out on deck and then started on a tour of inspection. Presently he neared the stern just in time to see one of the two stern lookouts leap upon the other and bear the latter to the deck. The assailant gripped his victim around the throat, administering a severe choking.
“No, you don’t!” yelled the upper man. “I caught you that time, and I’ll bet you’ve done it before. Marine guard, here——stern watch!”
A midship lookout passed the word, but Dave darted forward out of the shadows.
“Get up, Ferguson,” Darrin commanded. “Back to your post. You’ve no right to take your eyes away from your particular work. Get up, Jordan.”
The latter, the sailor who had been attacked, rose to his feet, sullenly rubbing his throat.
“Ferguson, why did you attack Jordan?” Dave demanded.
“Look astern, sir!” Seaman Ferguson replied, pointing to the wake of the destroyer. “Do you see that gleam on the water, sir? It’s something that Jordan dropped overboard. It’s some tricky, dirty work, sir, or I’ll eat my guess. I’ve known since last night, sir, that Jordan was tricky. He tried to get me to look another way to-night, but out of the corner of one eye I saw him drop something overboard—and then that thing in our wake began to gleam.”
By this time the solitary marine guard on deck duty had arrived aft. Beholding the commanding officer, the sea-soldier saluted and stood at attention.
“My man,” Dave ordered, “take my compliments to Lieutenant Curtin and my instructions that he is to make a careful turn and try to go back through our wake. He is to be very exact about going over the very wake of this craft. The message delivered, report back here.”
Jordan, who had turned deathly pale, glanced about him as if meditating some foolish flight.
“Now, Jordan,” Dave began, taking the young sailor firmly by the arm, “what was it you threw overboard?”
“A—a—” began the accused one.
“Yes, come out with it,” Darrin commanded.
“I didn’t throw anything overboard, sir. Ferguson is a liar.”
Whereupon Seaman Ferguson, though he still kept his eyes turned in the direction imposed by his watch duties, clenched both fists hard.
“It won’t do you any good to deny, Jordan,” Dave insisted. “We’re going back and find that—whatever it was that you threw overboard. Better tell me now!”
As if to confirm his words the “Logan” began to turn in a half circle. At the same time the marine returned.
“Take Jordan below. See that he’s searched and then confined in the brig,” Dave directed.
With infinite care the “Logan” sought her recent wake. It was no simple task on such a night, when the new moon had already set. And, travelling at such easy speed, the “Logan” had not stirred up anything like the foamy, suds-like wake that trailed after her when she steamed at fighting speed.
By the time the turn was made the glowing object that Ferguson had pointed out was no longer visible. Carefully the destroyer picked her way back. They were a bit out of the straight line, though, as Darrin presently found reason to believe, for a tiny glow, looking like a point of dim light in the near distance, was finally sighted about three points off the port bow.
“Two points to port,” Dave passed the word. He was now well up forward of the bridge, watching the surface of the ocean intently. “Steady! Stop!... Half speed astern.... Stop!”
The glowing object was now in plain sight as it tossed on the swells. Darrin gave the order to lower a cutter, instructing Ensign Phelps to go along and haul in that glowing object.
There was no need to watch it from the “Logan.” Mr. Phelps, from the cutter, could make it out distinctly. Soon he reached it, a seaman bending over the side and picking up the object.
“Pass it to me at once,” directed the ensign, and an instant later took possession of it. By the time the boat had been hoisted to the davits Mr. Phelps leaped down to the deck and joined his commander.
“Did you observe, sir? This thing glowed, while in the water,” declared the ensign, holding up a bottle of about a pint capacity, tightly closed with a rubber stopper. “Yet when I got it in out of the water it stopped glowing, and looked as dull and dark as it does now. I believe it’s coated with a transparent substance that glows only when the thing is in the water. Have I your permission, sir, to drop it in a fire bucket and see?”
“Go ahead,” Dave assented.
Phelps walked to a near-by fire bucket and thrust the bottle in the water. At first nothing happened. After a few seconds, however, the bottle began to glow dimly, then gradually increased in brightness until it became clear and mellow.
“That’s enough for that,” Darrin nodded. “Now bring it into the chart-room, Mr. Phelps, and we’ll look it over.”
Their entrance awoke Dalzell, who stretched, then sprang up.
Dave hastily explained to his chum what had happened, at the same time going to the desk and turning on a stronger electric light.
Holding the bottle up against the light, Dave was able to make out what looked like a folded piece of paper in it, nothing else.
“At all events,” smiled Dave, as he seated himself before the desk and glanced through the bottle glass, “I do not see any reason to believe that I shall set off any explosive by drawing out the rubber stopper.”
Nothing disastrous happened as the stopper was withdrawn. Holding the bottle up to the light once more, peering through the neck, Darrin saw that it contained only the folded paper. Careful work with a penholder consumed five minutes of time before the paper was pried out, whole.
Dave spread it on the desk before him,
“Phelps, you read German better than I do, I believe.”
“I can make a stagger at it, sir.”
“Look this through and translate for me,” Darrin requested.
Slowly, and with a good deal of care, Phelps translated in these words:
“U. S. Destroyer ‘Logan.’ 8.15 P. M. (Date) Longitude ——; latitude ——. Course, west by southwest. Carries three times usual amount of ammunition. Speed, eight knots.”
The actual date was given; longitude and latitude were correct enough.
When Phelps had finished reading Dave Darrin leaned back in his chair, pain expressed in his face and eyes.
“A traitor on board! An American on this craft who has sold himself to the Huns! In the name of mercy how can such a thing be?”
“Tell the orderly to pass the word to the marine corporal to bring Jordan here,” Dave ordered, after a dazed instant.
That order was quickly obeyed. Seaman Jordan, shuffling his feet, his eyes roving shiftily, nevertheless maintained a half-defiant, half-injured air.
“Jordan,” demanded Dave, without a moment’s waiting, as the man was placed before him, “why did you drop this bottle overboard?”
“I didn’t, sir.”
“But Ferguson says you did.”
“He’s a liar, sir.”
“Where did you get this bottle?” Dave rapped out.
“I didn’t get it, sir; I never saw it before.”
“Have you any more of these bottles?”
“Naturally not, sir.”
“What is the transparent coating on this bottle that makes it glow soon after it reaches the water?”
“I don’t know anything about it, sir.”
“Jordan, don’t you know that, in maintaining this defiant attitude, you are only injuring your own case?” Darrin demanded, warningly.
“I can’t tell you anything else than I’m telling you, sir,” the sailor cried, angrily. “I have been telling you the truth and I won’t lie, sir.”
“I don’t ask you to lie,” Darrin observed coolly.
“But you won’t believe me, sir.”
“No,” said Dave, rising. “I don’t. Corporal, take this man back to the brig. And see to it that you don’t repeat anything that you have heard here. As you go out pass the word by messenger to the officer of the deck to have Seaman Ferguson relieved. As soon as that is done Ferguson is to report to me here.”
So swiftly are orders carried out on a destroyer in war-time that it was less than a minute later when Ferguson knocked, entered, saluted, and stood, cap in hand, before his commanding officer.
“Ferguson,” Dave began, “outside of your being stationed with him, have you seen much of Jordan?”
“About as much, sir, as I see of any shipmate who isn’t any particular friend of mine.”
“Have you been on unfriendly terms with Jordan?”
“Not until I caught him at tricks to-night, sir.”
“Ever had any trouble with Jordan?”
“Fought him twice, I think, sir.”
“Any bad blood between you two?”
“No, sir; that is, nothing more than disputes that blew over at once after we had used our fists on each other.”
“Who won the fights?”
“I did, sir.”
“And you have not looked upon Jordan as an enemy?”
“No, sir.”
“What has been your opinion of Jordan as a seaman?”
“He always seemed to know his business, sir.”
“Did he perform his duties cheerfully?”
“I thought so,” Ferguson replied.
“Now, Ferguson,” Darrin went on, “you two have chatted quite a bit, haven’t you, when on station side by side?”
“Yes, sir, whenever we found the time hanging heavy on our hands.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Sometimes, sir, we talked about the fun that can be had on shore leave, but more often about submarines and the war, sir.”
“And what was Jordan’s attitude toward the war?”
“I don’t know that I understand you, sir.”
“Did Jordan speak as if he believed the United States did right to enter the war?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“He talked, did he, like what you would call a good American?”
“Yes, sir; always, when the subject was mentioned.”
“And you believed him loyal to the United States?”
“Yes, sir; up to last night.”
“What happened then?”
“Why, sir, Jordan got me to look off to starboard, and my back was turned to him for a moment. I felt, rather than saw, that he had dropped something overboard. I looked quickly astern at our wake. I now feel pretty sure, sir, that I saw something glowing floating on the water astern. You may remember, sir, that at this time last night there was a heavy phosphorescent wake. And we were making faster speed last night, too, and our propeller turned up more of the phosphorescent stuff in the water, if that is the right way to express it, sir.”
Darrin nodded his comprehension of the description, and went on:
“Last night was the first time you had any suspicion of Jordan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he do anything further last night to arouse your suspicion?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you watch him?”
“Yes, sir; like a hawk. But I’m pretty sure that he didn’t know I was watching him.”
“Did you report your suspicions to any officer?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t have anything but a hazy suspicion to report, sir, and I wouldn’t like to carry tales or rouse suspicion against a chap who might be altogether decent.”
“Then your previous fights with Jordan didn’t cause you to dislike or suspect the man?”
“Certainly not, sir. I don’t fight that way. When I’ve a bit of a scrap with a mate, sir, the fight is over, with me, when it stops.”
“Yet you felt that you should keep an eye on Jordan to-night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you believe that Jordan dropped this bottle overboard into our wake?”
“I’m positive that he did, sir.”
“Did you see him do it?”
“No, sir,” Ferguson replied, without hesitation.
Dave Darrin had followed a style of questioning that is common to the Army and the Navy when one enlisted man makes a report against another enlisted man. Dave’s first object was to make sure that there was no really bad blood between the men, and that the charge wasn’t merely a matter of getting square. Secondly, Darrin was trying to make up his mind as to Ferguson’s keenness and reliability as a witness. By this time he had made up his mind that Seaman Ferguson was telling the truth according to his best knowledge of what had happened, and that he had spoken without prejudice.
“Ferguson,” said the young destroyer commander, promptly, “I am satisfied that you have answered me truthfully. I also commend you for your prompt action to-night. As to your failure to make a report of your suspicions last night I believe that you have justified yourself.”
“Thank you, sir. If I may, I would like to ask the lieutenant-commander a question.”
This way of putting it, addressing Dave in the third person, is quite in keeping with the custom of the service.
“You may ask the question,” Dave nodded.
“Then I would like to ask the lieutenant-commander, sir, if I would have done better to have reported my suspicions last night?”
“It is impossible to answer that question for every case that might arise,” Dave told him. “Navy men, whether enlisted or commissioned, dislike tale-bearers. In war-time, however, and under peculiar conditions where extreme peril always lurks, and where the act of a spy may destroy a ship’s company in a twinkling of an eye, it is usually permissible to report even vague suspicions. The officer to whom such a report is made will quickly discover that it is probably only a vague suspicion, and then he will not be unduly prejudiced against the suspected man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do not talk this over with your mates, Ferguson. The less that is said about the matter for the present the better I shall like it. That is all for the present. You have done a good bit of work, Ferguson.”
“I thank the lieutenant-commander.”
At a nod from Darrin the seaman saluted and withdrew.
For the next five minutes Dave sat, alternately scanning the message and studying the appearance of the bottle. At last he looked up at his brother officers.
“Mr. Phelps, you will make it your next duty to search Jordan’s effects. In his duffle bag or hammock space you may find more of these bottles. If you do not, you will extend your search further, as your judgment dictates. If there are any more of these bottles on board I wish them found and turned over to me.”
After the ensign had gone Dan drew on his sheepskin.
“After this spy scare,” he announced, “I’m off to make an inspection. Perhaps I may find something connected with this matter.”
“If you go by the brig, Danny-boy, you might tell Jordan that at any time when he wants to open up and speak the truth he may send in word.”
“Very good, sir.”
Left by himself Darrin went to a filing case, turned to “J” and brought forth Jordan’s descriptive card. This is a card that contains full information as to an enlisted man’s name, his age, a personal description, extent and kind of service, education, qualifications, disciplinary record, the grades in which he has served, the ships and shore stations on or at which he has served, and more information along similar lines.
Jordan’s card showed that the arrested man had joined the Navy five years before, as an apprentice, at the age of nineteen; his work had always been well done; he had never been in serious trouble; his reputation was good. His home address was given and the names of his parents stated.
“No help from this source,” Dave mused, as he returned the card to its proper place in the drawer. “Assuming that Jordan is guilty, then Jordan is not his real name, and he’s really a German, not an American. For Jordan’s treachery might cause the sudden destruction of this craft, and no American, no matter how bad, would sell out for mere money when he knew his treachery was likely to result in his own sudden death. No American, good, bad or indifferent, would be capable of such devotion to Germany, but a German would. Therefore I suspect that Jordan is really a German, who enlisted under a false name. It may even be that German authorities, foreseeing the coming of the war, and suspecting that the United States might be drawn into it, ordered this young fellow to enlist in peace times that he might be at hand as a spy when trouble did break out. If that is true of Jordan, I wonder how many other German spies also succeeded in enlisting in our Navy before Germany went to war at all? Jupiter, but that’s a startling question! For that matter, have we other German spies aboard the ‘Logan?’”
The idea was enough to cause Darrin to settle back in his chair, a prey to rushing thoughts.
Earlier that same evening a group of Uncle Sam’s soldiers stood at the bow of a steamship. Back of them, on the spar deck, other groups lined the rails on both sides.
For some minutes there had been silence, but at last one of the group in the bow spoke.
“Late to-night I expect that we shall enter the outer edge of the Danger Zone.”
“If the Huns and their subs are there to meet us it will kill a lot of the monotony,” declared another soldier.
“I wonder if the Huns will put up any real excitement for us in that line,” said a third.
“Getting nervous, Pete?” asked the first speaker, with a short laugh.
“Not a bit,” replied Pete, hiding a yawn with his left hand.
“Nothing to get nervous about,” spoke up a fourth soldier. “The Huns are bully at sinking unarmed freighters, but so far, if they know anything about getting convoyed troopships they haven’t used much of their knowledge.”
“Still, they do get a troopship once in a while,” spoke up another soldier, in a serious tone. “They may get us.”
“Won’t amount to much if they do,” declared Pete, boldly. “Some of us would get off in the boats, and the rest of us would drop into the water with our life-belts on. Then we’d soon be picked up by a destroyer and we’d be all right again. Pooh! This so-called submarine ‘menace’ makes me tired. With all their submarines and all their bluster the Huns don’t do enough damage to our troopships to make it worth all the bother they have to take.”
“Anybody going to stay awake all night, to see if we get it during the dark hours?” inquired another.
“No; what’s the use? If we don’t get hit there is no use in losing our sleep. If we do get hit there’s always plenty of time for the men to turn out and fit their life-belts on.”
“If I thought we’d be attacked during the dark hours I’d like to stay up here on deck to-night and be on hand to see what happens when the attack comes,” said a soldier in a group that was moving bow-ward from the port rail.
“Forget it,” advised a corporal. “The guard would chase you below if you tried to stay on deck. After ‘hammocks’ is sounded no man is allowed on deck unless he is on duty. If there is an attack to-night the guard will have all the fun to divide with the forward gun-crew.”
A young naval petty officer standing just behind the bow gun wheeled abruptly, eyeing the soldier lot.
“Don’t you fellows get nervous,” he said. “This is my seventh trip across on a troopship, and to date the only thing I’ve seen to shoot at is the barrel that is chucked overboard when we’re to have target practice.”
“Who’s nervous?” demanded Pete.
“All of you,” replied the bluejacket calmly.
“Don’t you believe it!”
“That is not calling you cowards, either,” the bluejacket continued. “And let me give you a tip. If we’re still afloat when daylight comes, don’t any of you strain your eyesight looking for submarine conning towers sticking above the water. There won’t be any. No matter how many subs there may be about, they know better than to expose themselves with so many destroyers around and all the troopships armed. The most that any Hun submarine commander would show would be a foot of slim periscope for a few seconds, and it would be so far away that no one but a fellow used to looking for such things would see it. Want my advice?”
“If it’s any good,” nodded the corporal.
“It’s as good as can be had,” retorted the young bluejacket. “Here is the line of thought for you. Unless you’re detailed for guard or lookout duty, don’t bother looking for subs at all. Don’t even give any thought to them unless the attack starts. Keeping your mind off submarines will give you a better show to keep your hair from turning gray before you reach the trenches.”
This troopship was one of the pair that led the fleet. A long double line of ships it was. Some of the vessels were of eight or nine thousand tons; others were smaller and still others much smaller. They moved in two lines that were widely separated, and even in the lines the intervals between ships looked long to a landsman. Ahead a torpedo boat destroyer of the United States Navy scurried briskly, often scooting off to one side of the course. Other destroyers were out to port or starboard, while one craft manned by vigilant officers and men brought up the rear of the long fleet.
Every now and then a destroyer, for no reason apparent to a landsman, darted between ships and took up a new post, or else turned and scurried back to its former relative position.
This fleet was the present ocean home of the One Hundred and Seventeenth Division, United States Army. On one of the ships the most important passenger was Major General Burton, division commander. On another troopship the “big man” was Brigadier General Quimby, commanding the Three Hundred and Twenty-second Infantry Brigade. Brigadier General Sefton’s Three Hundred and Twenty-first Infantry Brigade was also with the fleet, along with Brigadier General Strong’s brigade of one heavy field artillery regiment and two light field artillery batteries.
There were Engineers and Medical Corps units on the ships of this fleet, Quartermaster field transportation units, Signal Corps men, and units of various other auxiliary branches of the service. First and last, some twenty-four thousand officers and men of the Army. Some of the ships carried horses and mules, others tractors. Great quantities of ammunition of all types were carried by this fleet; stores of food and medicines, batteries of artillery, ambulances—in a word, all the vast quantities of equipment, ordnance, clothing and the other items that go to meet the demands of troops on foreign field service.
A really huge Armada it was, considering the actual number of fighting men that it carried. A dark, uncanny-looking fleet it was, too, with an air of stealth and secret enterprise that could not be dispelled. Nowhere on any of the troopships did a light glow that could, by any possibility, be seen by those aboard another craft. Visible lights had been forbidden from the very moment that the ships had set sail from American ports.
To this rule of no visible lights the sole exception, occasionally to be observed, was the use of the red, white and blue electric lights that sometimes glowed briefly from the yard-arms of the vessels. These lights, slangily called “blinkers,” convey necessary messages from one war craft to another at sea.
Nineteen thousand fighting men and some five thousand to serve them behind the fighting lines in France, were thus crossing the ocean, under dark skies, and with every ship in complete darkness. It was a weird sight, and Uncle Sam’s soldiers aboard these ships had not yet gotten over the wonder of it.
All through the fleet, conversations as to the probability of submarine attack on the morrow, or on succeeding days, were infrequent and brief. Hardly a soldier, however, was fooled by the absence of talk on the subject. Each soldier knew that he was thinking a good deal about the chances of the ship’s being torpedoed on the high seas, and he knew, too, that his comrades were thinking of the same thing.
At last the bugles through the fleet softly sounded the call to turn in. Nearly all of the men had remained up on deck this evening. Now they stole below, hurriedly making up their bunks, and as hurriedly undressing and getting in under the blankets before “taps” should sound.
And so the decks were left to the gun-crews, to the lookouts and the members of the guard posted there. Below, on the berth-decks, some of the soldiers slept little, if any, that night. Others went promptly and soundly asleep.
It was on this same night that Lieutenant-Commander Dave Darrin was presently obliged to put out of his mind, as far as possible, further thought of the supposed treachery of Seaman Jordan, for they were on their way to the rendezvous where they were to meet the troopship fleet.
Dan Dalzell, as executive officer, came in breezily, saluting briskly and giving his cheery report as to the results of his inspection:
“All secure, sir.”
Dave was on the bridge, with Lieutenant Briggs, when Ensign Phelps came to report that he had been unable to find any of the looked-for bottles in Jordan’s duffle-bag or other effects, or, for that matter, anywhere else.
“Very good, Mr. Phelps. Thank you. I recommend that, until your watch is called, you get all the sleep you can. To-morrow there may be no sleep for any of us.”
Later in the night cautious signals, “blinker” lights, were observed off the port quarter.
The “Logan,” comprehending, replied with her own “blinkers.” The two craft presently came closer, and after that kept each other company, for the destroyer “John Adams” was also bound for the rendezvous of the early morn.
Two hours before dawn Darrin gave the order to lie to. The “Adams” also stopped her engines, nearly, for the destroyers had reached the point of rendezvous. Soon afterward a third destroyer signalled and joined; not long after that a fourth. There were two more on hand before dawn.
Through the dark sky came three short, quick flashes of a searchlight. It was the “Logan” that returned this signal. Then other signals were swiftly exchanged with the craft to the westward.
“The troopship fleet is going to be punctual to the minute,” Darrin remarked to his watch officer.
“And our biggest time will be ahead of us, sir, I’m thinking,” responded Lieutenant Briggs.
“In a way the big time will be welcome,” smiled Dave. “Even if we are unfortunate enough to sustain some losses the Hun will get the worst of it.”
“Why do you say that, sir?” Briggs inquired.
“Because, so far, in every encounter with naval vessels or troopships the Hun has seemed fated to get the worst of it.”
In the east a pale light appeared in the sky. This slowly deepened. Then came the early red and orange tints of what promised to be a bright day.
“There’s the troopship fleet!” cried Darrin, joyously. “The head of it anyway. We’ll soon see more of it.”
Lieutenant Briggs held his glass for a full thirty seconds on the first ships visible to the westward.
“And there goes our signal to join!” exclaimed Darrin, as bunting broke from the foremast of the leading destroyer with the fleet. “Acknowledge the signal, Mr. Briggs, and give the order for full speed ahead.”
Racing westward went six torpedo boat destroyers to meet their comrades of the Navy and of the Army.
As they drew nearer, those on the destroyers could see a wild waving of hats by the soldiers crowding the decks of the leading transports. One moment the hat-waving was visible; then as suddenly it ceased, and the spar decks were nearly bare of men, for mess-call had sounded for breakfast. The only soldier who fails to answer mess call is a sick or a dead one.
“Follow second destroyer on port line,” came the signal from the leading destroyer to the “Logan.” “After taking position meet any emergency according to best judgment.”
So the “Logan” raced along to the north of the fleet, then made a swift, curving sweep and moved into the assigned position.
From the decks of the nearest transports, soldiers, as they returned from their meal, blithely waved their caps again. Cheering was forbidden, as such noise would drown out orders that might be given for the handling of the ship. But those Of Dave’s jackies who could, waved back good-humoredly.
For some minutes after taking position, Darrin found himself running along with the troopship “Cumberland,” and the distance between them was but a few hundred yards.
Dave had turned to watch the movements of the destroyer ahead in the line when he heard a starboard lookout call:
“Torpedo coming, sir, on the port beam!”
Like a flash Darrin wheeled to behold the oncoming trail.
Lieutenant Curtin, now on the bridge watch, gave quartermaster and engine-room swift orders, while Ensign Phelps signalled the “Cumberland.”
Like a racehorse in full career, the “Logan” bounded forward and made a sharp turn to port. At the same time the “Cumberland” obliqued sharply to starboard.
On came the torpedo. The soldiers on the troopship deck watched its course with fascinated eyes.
The “Logan,” having swerved enough only to clear the deadly missile, now darted in again, her nose striking what was left of the torpedo trail. On she dashed, gun and bomb crews grimly waiting, every man on duty alert on the destroyer’s decks.
Cutting the wind the “Logan” raced on her way, her bow throwing up a huge volume of water. Dave, on the bridge, saw his staunch little fighting craft near the starting end of the tell-tale torpedo trail. And there on the water, moving eastward and at right angles with the direction of the path, was an ill-defined, bulky something which, from the destroyer’s bridge, looked like a submerged shadow.
Quickly rasping out a change in the course, Dave saw the “Logan” overtake that shadow in a matter of seconds. The shadow was much less distinct now, for the sea pest was submerging to greater depth.
It was Darrin himself who seized the handle of the bridge telegraph.
Answering the signal sent by Dave to the engine room, the “Logan” made a magnificent leap forward just as the destroyer’s bow reached the point over the tail of the shadow.
“Let go the depth bomb!” he roared. The signal was passed to the bomb crew to “let go!”
Over went the bomb. The “Logan” still leaped forward.
Then, astern of the rushing craft, came a muffled roar. A great mass of water shot up into the air, like a compressed geyser. Before the column of water had had time to subside big bubbles of air came up in myriads and burst on the surface.
The instant after the explosion of the depth bomb, the “Logan” turned on the shortest axis possible, her propellers slowing down somewhat.
“The ‘Cumberland’ is still afloat and not hit, thank Heaven!” Darrin uttered fervently.