“You murdered my husband.”
Beside herself, she tried to spring past the sailor guards to attack the fellow with her own hands.
Darrin came along just in time to take hold of one of her arms.
“Come, madam,” he urged, soothingly, “do not foul your hands by touching such a beast.”
“I wish I could have him hanged—the murderer!” cried the woman, passionately.
“I am more cruel than you, then, madam,” Dave continued, as he led her away step by step, “for I would have the wretch live a long life. No matter how long he lives his ears must be filled with the shrieks of dying women and children. He must hear the cries of the drowning and the moans of the wounded. He must start in terror from his sleep at night, for he has done foul deeds that will haunt him as long as memory lasts. He has lived the sneaking, cowardly life of a pirate, and is steeped in all the foulness of piracy. His has not been the life of the brave fighting man, who willingly grants the foe an equal chance. He has murdered and pillaged. This fellow can never, as long as he lives, escape the accusations of his own lost soul.”
“It is a lie!” foamed Sparnheim. “A lie, a lie, a lie, I tell you! What I have done, I have done as a loyal and patriotic German. What I have done was for my country and my sovereign!”
“To be sure,” Dave agreed, “but you can never shift your part of the burden from yourself. Your life will be one of misery.”
Others of the passengers had crowded forward to share with the frenzied woman the storm of reproaches that she visited upon these Germans, but Dan felt that matters had gone far enough.
“All rescued survivors will please step inside,” he called out. “We will register your names and make the best possible provision for you.”
Having gotten the rescued ones well aft, Dan turned to the petty officer in charge of the prisoners.
“March them down to the brig,” he ordered.
Sparnheim drew himself up, then indicated a younger man at his side.
“Me? You know who I am. And this is Lieutenant Witz. When you send my men to your brig, what do you do with us?”
“We won’t separate you,” Dan assured him, with a smile.
“I demand to know where you will send us. That is, if we are not to have the freedom of the deck?”
“You will both go to the brig with your men,” Dalzell answered.
“But we are officers and gentlemen!” cried Sparnheim, indignantly.
“Gentlemen!” repeated Dan Dalzell, a world of irony in his tone.
Then to the petty officer:
“To the brig, with the whole lot of them!”
Sparnheim struck at a sailor who took hold of his arm and the sailor promptly felled him to the deck.
“I am insulted and treated outrageously because I am helpless,” yelled the German, sitting on the deck.
“I am sorry that violence was necessary,” Dan replied, raising him to his feet. “You have only to obey, and you will not be handled roughly.”
“I will not go to the brig with common sailors!” roared Sparnheim.
“It is rough on the sailors,” Dan agreed, “so I shall have to apologize to your ‘common sailors’ and ask them to endure your company. If they maltreat you, you can make complaint, you know.”
It required two husky sailors to drag Sparnheim below. Witz, who was more tractable, went as ordered, head down, and eyes lowered.
“The air is sweeter now that they’re gone,” Dan confided to his chum.
“Much!” Dave agreed, dryly.
Soon after that the last of the survivors from the sunken steamship were picked up and made as comfortable as possible.
It was not until the following morning that these survivors, and the German prisoners as well, were transferred to an in-bound destroyer.
Then the “Prince,” with a farewell toot of her whistle to the destroyer, turned her nose about and steamed off in search of such further enterprise as the broad sea might hold in store for her.
“Shall we escort you in?”
It was the following morning, and the “Prince” was proceeding eastward. An American destroyer, roaring along on her way, funnels belching clouds of black smoke, her engines at full speed, her whole frame quivering, sent this signal to the “Prince”:
“Do you wish convoy?”
“No, thank you,” Dan signalled back, as the destroyer slowed down for an answer. “We can look out for ourselves.”
“You don’t look it,” came back the response.
“We’ll get in, all right,” Dan replied by signal.
“Sorry for you,” came the reply. “Think we’d better stick by.”
“Confound him,” muttered Dalzell. “He means well, but if he stands by us he’ll spoil our good chance of trapping some more of these submarines.”
“Ask him who commands,” Darrin suggested.
Dan ordered the question signalled.
“Preston,” came the reply.
“We know him well enough,” laughed Dave. “He was at Annapolis with us.”
Dan was now quick to see the point of Dave’s original suggestion, for he signalled:
“Do you remember Dalzell?”
“Danny Grin!” came the prompt response from the destroyer.
“Yes; he commands this tub,” Dan signalled back.
“Oh!” came the comprehending signal from the destroyer.
Then, after a brief interval:
“Danny Grin could always laugh his way into luck. Good-bye, and success!”
“Thank you,” Dan did not omit to signal back. “More of the same to you.”
The destroyer increased her speed and forged ahead, disappearing in the distance.
“He knew that Dan Dalzell could take care of himself,” Dave declared.
“At least,” replied the “Prince’s” commander, “he must have realized that I had some game out here on the water that I didn’t want spoiled.”
“Periscope astern, sir!” called a lookout two hours later.
Dan’s watch officer turned just in time to detect, with his glass, a tube even then being withdrawn back into the water.
“Twelve hundred yards astern, at least,” he reported to Dalzell. “I couldn’t have picked it up without a glass, nor could the lookout.”
“Watch for a torpedo,” Dan directed, “although I don’t believe he’ll try at such a distance in his position.”
This guess proved correct, for the “Prince” continued on her way for fully five minutes after that without further sign from the submarine.
That very fact made Dalzell impatient.
“Confound the Hun!” he growled. “If he won’t try for me, then I’ll coax him!”
Accordingly the “Prince’s” engines were stopped. As soon as headway ceased, the seeming tramp appeared to drift helplessly on the waves. Dan’s next move was to order men to run over the decks and the superstructure as though making repairs.
“Just what do you figure the Hun will think has happened to you?” Darrin asked.
“He’ll have to do his own guessing,” Dan rejoined. “I’m not going to help him solve the puzzle. But surely something must have happened to us.”
For a few minutes nothing was seen, in any quarter, of the enemy craft. At last, however, a glimpse was caught of a periscope to starboard.
“He’s trying to figure us out,” Dan chuckled. “I hope we don’t look good enough for him to waste a torpedo!”
His hand at the engine-room telegraph, Dan waited, while Ensign Stark watched that periscope through his glass.
“There goes the periscope out of sight,” announced the watch officer, presently.
A full ten minutes passed. Then sight of the periscope was picked up once more, this time closer in.
“You’ve got him guessing, at the least,” Dave smiled.
“Yes, but I’m still hoping he won’t guess ‘torpedo,’” was Dalzell’s response. “Stand by, gunners!”
“There comes the conning tower,” Stark announced.
“He’s going to gun us, then,” Dan concluded. He waited, standing almost on tiptoe, until the gray back of the sea monster thrust itself up through the water.
“Back with the ports! Let him have it, starboard battery!” Dan called to the waiting naval gunners.
Their officer had the range and all was ready. Two shells splashed in the sea just short of the submersible, the third just beyond it.
“Second round!” Dan bellowed from the bridge.
Profiting by their margins of error the gunners this time fired so true that one shell landed on the gray back forward, the other aft. The hits were glancing, so the enemy was not put out of business.
The next instant a puff of smoke left the enemy’s forward gun. No bad shooting, that, for the forward gun of the “Prince’s” starboard battery was promptly knocked from its mounting. Four men went down as the shell exploded.
“Two killed, sir!” came the swift report from the deck. The others, wounded, were assisted below. The shell had done further damage, for a big fragment had knocked to bits one of the sliding port doors.
Dan signalled for speed ahead, swung around, and at the same time ordered raised for instant work a machine gun that nestled in the bow of the “Prince.”
“Let the enemy have it!” called Dalzell.
Straight at the submarine Dan dashed, throwing the spray high around the bows. The machine gunners, quickly getting sight, kept a steady stream of bullets striking against the enemy’s hull, despite the fact that the range was constantly shifting. This keeping of the range was not difficult when shots were fired continuously, for the enemy was near enough for the officer in charge of the piece to tell by splashes of water when any of the bullets went wild.
“He won’t dive now, but if he does, it will suit me just as well,” Dan chuckled. “That old hull must be a sieve now.”
Two torpedoes were discharged at the oncoming “Prince.” One of these missed the ship narrowly. The other struck, glancingly, on the port side, forward, and disappeared without exploding.
By now the submarine was doing some maneuvering of its own. Its forward and after guns were discharged whenever possible, but the shells failed to land, until the “Prince,” still managing to keep on, was within three hundred yards, and bent on ramming the enemy craft.
Over the bridge screamed a shell, passing so close that Dan and Dave ducked involuntarily.
Crash! There was a ripping of metal, a black smudge of smoke soon settling over everything, and the “Prince’s” smokestack was gone, clipped off within seven feet of the point where it emerged through the deck.
Then with a quick turn of the steering wheel the “Prince” was sent crashing into the long, low, gray hull. From close to the water came the yells of the Hun crew as they scrambled up through the conning tower hatchway.
On passed the “Prince,” making a wide sweep and coming back again. The submersible had already sunk from sight, leaving but few of her men struggling on the surface of the water.
By the time that the “Prince” had lowered a boat some of the Germans had sunk. Only three men were rescued and hauled in.
Lined up on the spar deck of the steamship these proved to be the second-in-command and two seamen.
“It’s an outrage to deceive us in the manner that you did,” angrily declared the German officer, in English.
“Take that matter up with the Assassins’ Union,” Dan jeered. “On this cruise I’ve heard other German officers call it an outrage. It appears to me that you Germans reserve the right to commit all the outrages.”
“Then you’ve met other submarines?” scowled the young officer.
“This part of the sea must be pretty clear of the pests, at the rate we’ve been going,” Dan announced, cheerfully. “We had a lot of prisoners, too, but you’ll find the brig empty now, for we transferred them.”
“The brig?” demanded the German officer. “What have I to do with that?”
“It will be your lodging,” Dan informed him. “Also your play yard.”
“I refuse to go there!” exclaimed the enemy officer, indignantly.
“Oh, well, you’ll be carried there, then,” said Dalzell, carelessly.
“But a ship’s brig is no place to confine officers,” the German went on, heatedly. “As an officer I demand proper quarters.”
“Take them below,” Dan ordered, briefly.
For the first few steps the German officer had to be dragged. Then, realizing the hopelessness of resistance, he yielded and walked along in company with his seamen, though he called back:
“I have helped to sink many ships, and trust that I may have had the honor and pleasure of sending friends of yours to the bottom.”
Ignoring the fellow, Dan went back to the bridge, thence down to the hurricane deck. Men were already engaged in removing the wreck of the smashed smoke-stack.
Emergency repairs were completed in due time, with materials kept on board for such a case.
And now, when he could safely run at full speed once more, if necessary, Dalzell gave the order to proceed. He was about to go below, to the wardroom for luncheon, when a radio operator came running to the bridge.
As has been stated, the “Prince” carried a full radio outfit, that could be installed rapidly, but Dan’s orders had been to conceal all evidence of radio equipment until absolutely necessary to use it.
None the less, a small receiving station had been rigged up, and concealed, so that, though Lieutenant-Commander Dalzell’s sending radius was short, he could receive messages from any quarter.
The message at which he now glanced read:
“S. S. ‘Prince’: Report.”
It had come in code, but Dan was able to translate it without reference to his code book.
Instantly, he gave orders to have the radio outfit erected, then descended to his meal.
Later one of the radio men reported that the equipment was in shape for signalling. So the young commander sent in his report of work so far accomplished to the destroyer base at the home port.
“Excellent!” came back the hearty commendation. “Results better than expected. But ruse will soon be known, so return and report. Darrin’s new orders will also be ready for him on arrival.”
“Home, James!” said Dan, jovially, to the officer of the deck, when he had deciphered the coded instructions.
That night he and Dave took an extra long sleep, though both remained fully dressed, ready for summons at any moment.
“Belle on her way, and due soon to arrive!” Dave Darrin cried, joyously, as he read the cablegram that had been handed to him on his arrival at the American admiral’s headquarters.
That cablegram had lain there for days, having arrived the same forenoon that Darrin had put to sea on the voyage of the “Prince” with Dalzell in command.
Belle was his wife, his schoolboy sweetheart, whom he had not seen in many months. He had known that she was trying to induce the Red Cross authorities to send her to France, but had had no word to the effect that she had been successful.
Now he knew, from the number by which the expected ship was designated in the cablegram, that she was on the passenger liner “Griswold.”
“When is the ‘Griswold’ due?” Dave asked a clerk at headquarters.
“Arrival date hasn’t been reported,” answered the clerk, “but it should be in to-day. I’ve an idea, sir, that the ‘Griswold’ cannot be far out now.”
“Your sailing orders, Darrin!” hailed a staff officer, walking briskly up and holding out a bulky envelope.
“Do I have a few days in port?” Dave inquired, hopefully.
“Sorry to say that you do not. You are required to drop out with the tide at four this afternoon.”
“Very good,” nodded Dave, pleasantly, though he did deeply regret that he could not have a few days in port. He must miss meeting Belle, who was bound for this same port.
“Your orders, too, Dalzell,” continued the staff officer, handing Dan an envelope of appearance similar to that which Darrin had received.
“Sailing orders for to-day for me, too?” he grinned.
“Same time as Darrin’s,” and the staff officer had hurried away.
While the friends had been out on their last cruise two big, new destroyers, lately commissioned, had arrived from the United States.
To Darrin and Dalzell, in recognition of their fine work against submarines, had fallen the commands of these new sea terrors.
The “Asa Grigsby” was Dave’s new craft; to Dan had fallen the “Joseph Reed.”
Ordinarily Dave would have been glad of his fine new command and prompt sailing orders. Now, he wished regretfully that he could have had a few days ashore. That he might meet the “Griswold” at sea, of which there was not more than half a chance, meant little to him. He would, in that case, pass the ship on which Belle journeyed, but that would mean nothing.
“Oh, well, it’s war-time,” Dave sighed, when Dan expressed sympathy. “A few years of war, you know, and then a man will have a chance to see his home folks again, once in a while.”
“It’s tough, that’s what it is,” answered Dan, sympathetically.
“No, it isn’t even that,” Dave rejoined, quickly. “There are thousands of men at sea on ships who may not see their wives again unless we chaps do our duty all the time. There are scores of women on the sea whose husbands will never see them again if we sleep or lag. The men of the destroyer fleet have no right to think of their own pleasure or convenience. I’m ready for sea, and I pray for a busy and successful cruise against the enemy!”
Only from the deck of the “Prince” had the two chums seen their new craft. Now they went down the hill toward the harbor, ready to report and take over their ships.
It was the first time during the war that the two chums had sailed separately. It was also Dan Dalzell’s first regular command, for the “Prince” had been handed over to him only on temporary detail.
“We’ll miss each other, Danny-boy,” cried Dave, regretfully, as the chums gripped each other’s hands at the quay. “We’ve been used to sailing together.”
“We can have a radio talk once in a while,” Dan returned glumly.
“Yes, but we’re supposed to talk by radio only on official matters.”
“We can at least find out when we’re near each other.”
After they had entered their respective gigs, and had started toward their craft, the chums waved hands toward each other.
Then Darrin, turning his thoughts to duty, tried to forget his disappointment over his inability to meet Belle.
Going up over the side of the “Grigsby,” Dave was greeted by the watch officer. Then his new executive officer, Lieutenant Fernald, reported to him and greeted him. Dave’s baggage was taken to the commanding officer’s quarters, and he followed to direct his new steward in the unpacking.
This done, Darrin went out on deck and ordered all officers and men assembled that he might take over the command formally by reading the orders assigning him to the “Grigsby.”
This formality over, Dave sent a messenger after one petty officer whom he had observed in the crew. A boatswain’s mate came promptly, saluted and reported.
“I noted your face, Runkle, and I’m glad indeed to see you on this ship,” Darrin informed him, heartily.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, sir,” replied Runkle, with another salute. “I was ordered to this craft only this forenoon, sir.”
“Yes; I’m glad to have you aboard, Runkle, for I remember that I’ve had some of my best luck when you were at hand. I think I shall have to appoint you my personal mascot,” Darry laughed.
“I’ll be that, or anything else that will serve, sir,” Runkle declared, gravely, his face flushing with pleasure over Dave’s cordiality.
“This is a fine new craft, Runkle.”
“Yes, sir; one of the two best destroyers that the United States has put in commission since the war began. I’m eager, sir, to see the best that the ‘Grigsby’ can do.”
“The best that the ‘Grigsby’ and her complement can do,” Dave Darrin amended.
Then, accompanied by the executive officer, Darrin started on a tour of inspection of the “Grigsby.”
“It seems a shame, doesn’t it,” Dave asked, “to think that a magnificent craft like this, costing a huge fortune, can be destroyed in a moment by contact with a single torpedo fired from some sneaking German submarine.”
“But it seems just as good the other way, sir, to think that such a craft as this can, perhaps, sink a dozen of the submarines before she meets her own fate.”
“I never fully appreciated before this war what war to the hilt meant,” Dave went on, thoughtfully. “Of course I knew that it spelled ‘death’ for many of the fighters, but it also means the destruction of so much property, the ruining of so much material that the world needs for its comfort! The world will be hard up, for a century to come, on account of the waste of useful materials caused by this war’s destructiveness.”
“But may the ‘Grigsby’ do her share of that destructive work!” said Lieutenant Fernald, fervently. “The property that we destroy belongs to those who would set the world back a thousand years!”
“I’m afraid we must go on destroying enemy property, and our own, too, in accomplishing harm to the enemy, Mr. Fernald. The more swiftly we destroy, the sooner our struggles against the German madmen will be ended!”
All was in readiness to sail. Punctually to the minute the “Grigsby” and the “Reed,” with anchors up, began to move out of the harbor. Both had their general orders as to the course to be followed, the length and duration of the cruise, too, with discretion as to changing their orders in emergencies such as might arise.
Hardly had they put out from port when the “Grigsby” and the “Reed” parted company.
For the first hour Darrin, following orders, ran at full speed, then slowed down to cruising speed. Night came upon the waters, with a crescent moon off in the western sky.
“And somewhere out on this wide waste, somewhere west of here, probably, is the ‘Griswold,’ with Belle aboard. And, unless she has liberty to remain in port, I shall not see her in months, perhaps, or maybe in years.”
Dave put the thought aside. He was out again in the haunts of the assassins of the sea; out, also, in the track of vessels bringing men and supplies for the world’s greatest fight. Disappointed as he was over the impossibility of meeting Belle, he realized how small his own affairs were as compared with the fate of the world.
At midnight he went below, for he had confidence in the new junior officers whom he had met to-day, and he wanted to be awake and on the bridge again just before dawn. So, leaving orders for his calling, he went below to his quarters.
And there he slept, dreaming of Belle, undoubtedly, until an hour before dawn, when an orderly entered hurriedly, shaking him hard by the shoulder.
“Message from liner ‘Griswold,’ sir, reports by radio that she has just dodged torpedo fired by submarine that is still following.”
“The ‘Griswold!’” echoed Darrin, awaking instantly and leaping to his feet. “You’re sure of the name?”
“Yes, sir!”
Dave pulled on rubber boots and snatched his cap and sheepskin coat.
Then, a second orderly reported:
“S. O. S. from ‘Griswold’, sir! Just struck and believed to be in sinking condition!”
“The ‘Griswold’ sinking! And Belle on board!” hurried into Dave Darrin’s mind as he heard further details and learned that the stricken liner lay twenty-five miles away, sou’-sou’-west from the “Grigsby’s” present position.
He darted through the doorway and sprang for the bridge.
“Full speed to the ‘Griswold’!” he commanded as he darted up the bridge stairs.
But Ensign Weedon had already worked the engine-room telegraph, and hardly had Dave rested two unsteady hands on the bridge rail when he felt the dashing spray in his face, for the “Grigsby” was racing like a hound just freed from its leash.
“Heading straight to the position reported, sir,” stated Ensign Weedon.
Lieutenant Fernald, also summoned, came hurrying to the bridge a few moments later.
“Like as not some of our own friends are on the ‘Griswold’,” muttered Fernald. “I understand she carries a large passenger list.”
“My wife is on board,” answered Darrin with a calmness that he did not feel.
Fernald’s face fell.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Darrin. We’ll do our best to reach the ship in time!”
“Yes, we’ll do our level best and go our fastest, just as we would hurry to aid any other stricken ship,” Darrin rejoined, steadily, though his hands gripped the rail so tightly that they showed white at the knuckles.
Weedon had already wirelessed to the “Griswold” that help was coming swiftly. Dalzell’s craft, too, had picked up the radio messages telling of the “Griswold’s” desperate plight. Dan was thirty-two miles away from the ship that bore Belle Darrin.
Then from the “Griswold” came this message:
“Listing so that cannot use bow or stern guns. Submarine risen and is shelling us!”
“The monsters!” groaned Dave, as Fernald, in an unsteady voice, read the radio message to him. “Ask how long the ‘Griswold’ can keep afloat if not hit further.”
This message was sent, bringing back the alarming word:
“Cannot say, but submarine moving closer. Evidently determined to make swift job of us.”
“And of course the German hears these messages!” groaned Dave. “He may even have the key to our code with commercial ships. He will now do his best and quickest to send the liner to the bottom!”
Ten minutes later this came in by way of the “Grigsby’s” aerials:
“S. O. S.! Taking to our boats on starboard side. Enemy on our port! S. O. S. ‘Griswold’.”
“And we are still fifteen miles away!” moaned Dave.
His face was calm, but ghastly white. His lips were tightly closed over firmly set jaws. “Fifteen miles away!”
“The turbines are doing every ounce of work that is in them,” said Lieutenant Fernald, in a low voice.
“I know it,” Dave answered dully, staring ahead into the night. “And Dalzell will be even longer than we in reaching the ‘Griswold’.”
“If you could tell the captain of the ‘Griswold’ how long it will take you to reach him, he might know better what to do—how to hold out more successfully,” suggested Fernald.
“And, if the German knows the code we are using he would know how long he could continue his wicked work and still have chance to get away,” Darrin replied. “I must not send him that information. Fernald, I have some hope that I may be able to find that German pirate still on the surface. If I do—”
Darrin did not finish, but on his face there was an expression that was both prayer and threat.
The watch officer counted the miles as they were reeled off and told Dave, from time to time, how many miles yet remained to be covered.
On the bridge were screened lights—one over the bridge compass, that the quartermaster might see to keep the ship on her course; another light placed under the hood that protected the chart table.
No other light appeared, and no light whatever could have been made out on the destroyer by any one from a near-by craft.
The minutes ticked slowly by—eternities they were to Dave Darrin.
Nearer and nearer, every minute, yet was there hope of arriving in time?
“By—by Jove!” cried Fernald, at last, under his breath.
“I see it,” Dave replied quietly. “And there is another—flashes from the German craft’s deck guns. We see them on account of the elevation of the guns, though we do not yet see the German hull through the glass.”
“I can make out the ‘Griswold’,” Fernald exclaimed. “Over there! See her, yonder? She is low in the water.”
“Yes; she must soon sink, or I am a poor guesser,” Dave rejoined. “Look, Fernald! Isn’t the liner lowering her port boats now?”
“Yes, sir, and shoving rafts over, too.”
“The rafts? Ah, yes! Near the finish now, and the ‘Griswold’s’ skipper has given up hope of our help. Putting the rafts overboard is always the first step in a wreck.”
Though hoping against hope, Fernald telephoned the engine room, urging the engineer to try to get a little more speed from the engines. The chief engineer officer, himself in charge below, did his best. Billows of black smoke hung over the water astern. Bit by bit the straining engines provided more, and then a little more speed.
If it were but daylight! Men stood by the “Grigsby’s” guns, ready to fire at the word—to sight by guess, should the lieutenant-commander on the bridge call for it. Dave might have thrown on the searchlight. Should the white ribbon of light appear now, while still so far away, the German commander would know how soon to submerge.
And Dave Darrin wanted the lives of those Germans! He was not blood-thirsty, and heretofore had fought because it was his duty to fight. Now he HATED these German fiends! If he could send fifty of them to the bottom, that would be excellent. If he could drown a hundred of the Hun pirates, that would be fine! To send a thousand of them to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean—that would be something worth while!
But to send that beam of clear white light across the ocean—to signal the German commander, in effect, the word “Dive!”—that would be criminal.
“Fernald!” cried Dave, hoarsely.
“Sir?”
“Can you make out the enemy hull?”
“No, sir.”
“Try!”
“I cannot make it out yet, sir,” replied Lieutenant Fernald, lowering the glass from his eyes. “But look—the first streaks of dawn are behind us.”
“That will be of no assistance for ten minutes or more,” answered Dave. “Ten minutes! It will all be over then. Look at that flash from the scoundrel’s gun!”
The German was now shelling the boats that were trying to slip away in the darkness. Next, undoubtedly, the Hun would begin firing on the rafts, which could move little faster than the waves that slipped them along.
“Never again any mercy to a pirate! Not one surrender will I accept after this! All Germans who fall into my clutches shall go to the bottom!”
Lieutenant Fernald turned his head aside to hide a bitter smile. He did not blame Dave; his heart ached for that gallant young commander. Yet well enough Fernald knew that Darrin would never, once his rage had passed, sink a helpless foe, no matter how much he despised the wretch.
They could now, through the night glass, make out a German sailor who stood forward on the submarine’s hull, a lookout, doubtless scanning the dark lines of the destroyer rushing to the rescue. It must be that lookout’s business to try to judge the distance of the destroyer, that the submersible might remain on the surface long enough to wreak all possible havoc on the lifeboats. Then, at the last moment, the submarine would submerge, that its commander, crew and craft might survive to assassinate ships’ companies on another day!
“He knows I won’t use my searchlight—he’s daring me!” muttered Dave, savagely. “But, by the great Dewey! I’ll use that light in thirty seconds more. Fernald, tell me when the time is up!”
Dave’s next word was passed to the officer in command of the forward guns, and by that officer to the skilled, cool gun-pointers.
None except Darrin, Fernald and the watch officer knew that Belle Darrin was a passenger on the ill-fated “Griswold.”
“Let your first shots set this craft’s record!” was the division officer’s quiet command to the gun-pointers.
No message could have been more inspiring to these veterans, on a new ship, knowing that she was one of the best of the destroyer fleet.
The “Grigsby” came rushing, roaring in, and then, slowing down, went close to the foremost of the boats from the sinking liner.
From the submarine a shell arched and struck in that boat, tearing out the bottom and throwing the occupants into the sea.
“Searchlight!” commanded Darrin.
Hardly a second did the light waver in the sky, then settled down across the submarine, making a fair mark of her.
A double bark leaped out from the forward guns. Never had pieces been better served, for one shell tore a big, jagged hole in the starboard hull of the enemy, the bottom of the rent being barely six inches from the water. The second shell went in just below the water-line, throwing up a geyser-like jet of water.
“A just fate, but a pity it could not have been made ten times more severe,” muttered Dave, as, through the glass, he saw the submersible careen under the impact, with a swift listing to starboard.
There was no use bothering further about the fate of the enemy. That was already settled. There were travelers, many of them Americans, to be saved as far as saving could be done.
As though to keep the submersible mocking company, the “Griswold” gave a final lurch, then settled quietly under the waves despite the immensity of her hull.
“Put around to port—back!” shouted Darrin, his voice now cool and steady as the realization of his rescue duties came to him. “Slow,” he added, warningly. “We must be careful not to upset those boats with our wash.”
After making the turn, Darrin ordered the speed reduced still more, as he saw human figures ahead on the dark waves—some swimming, others floating in death.
Not waiting for the order the searchlight men deflected the light, sending a beam out across the waters as the “Grigsby,” moving slowly enough now, steamed along to one side of the forms in the water. Other seamen, at the edge of the slippery deck, stood by to heave lines to those who could grasp them.
The light, as it rested upon the water at a point seventy-five yards from the destroyer, revealed a woman’s features.
Dave gave a start, rubbing his eyes as though sure he was the victim of some hideous illusion.
His eyesight was excellent; there could be no mistaking.
“Belle!” burst from him, in a convulsive sob.
Before those with him could divine his purpose, Dave Darrin leaped from the bridge to the deck below.
An agonized moment he devoted to the removing of cumbersome rubber boots. Less than half as much time was required to throw off cap and coat. Then bounding forward, he leaped and sprang out, his clasped hands cleaving the water ahead of him as he struck through the waves.
Another splash, half a second later. But Darrin did not know that another swam behind him.
It had really been Belle’s white, motionless face that had floated by. She had been in the boat Dave saw shattered by the shell.
Nor did Darrin once lose sight of her as he struck out fiercely until, when he was within fifteen feet of his goal, Belle sank without cry or voluntary movement.
Darrin made a great lunge forward and dived. He was seeking her, desperately!
Behind came that other swimming figure.
So true had been the aim of Darrin’s lunging leap forward, that now, as he went deeper, one of his hands touched her. He seized Belle and shot up to the surface.
“A hand right here, sir!” sounded the cheery, enthusiastic voice of Boatswain’s Mate Runkle. “Let me help you, sir.”
Of a truth Dave was in need of help. His emotion had spent him more than the mere physical effort had done. He felt limp, weak, but the infection of Runkle’s cheerful, cool tone made Dave once more master of himself.
“Take it easy, sir,” advised the boatswain’s mate. “They’re lowering a boat.”
“Can you see the boat?”
“No, sir.”
“Hear it?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how do you know—”
“I know an American man-o’-war’s crew, sir. They wouldn’t be doing anything else. All we have to do, sir, is to keep her afloat. I’ll stake my soul on that, sir.”
And then Dave did see a boat come into view, and heard the sturdy splash of oars—heard the coxwain’s brisk orders.
So weak was Dave that he almost wished to clasp Belle to him that they might sink together and be at rest. To take her from the water only to lay her in a grave on shore—what did it really matter after all? And for himself—what?
“Stand by, bowman there!” rapped out the coxwain’s voice, as the small boat shot along under rapid headway. “The boat-hook! The woman first!”
Deftly the hook was caught in Belle’s soaked garments.
“And now the skipper!” called Runkle, who had transferred his support to Dave Darrin. “As for me, stand clear! I’ll pull myself aboard.”
Other boats came out from the destroyer. These, with the numerous boats from the sunken liner and a number of rafts that dotted the water, all had to be collected. The “Grigsby’s” whistle broke hoarsely on the air, calling them in.
The boat that carried Darrin and Belle was the first to reach the destroyer. Dave bore his wife up over the side.
“I shall take her to my quarters,” he informed Lieutenant Fernald. “See that the surgeon is sent there at once. Runkle, you are all right?”
“Never more so, sir,” replied the boatswain’s mate.
“Go below and put on dry clothing.”
Dave staggered along with his precious burden into his own quarters, which he never used on a patrolling cruise. He laid Belle tenderly on his bunk and called up the bridge.
“Mr. Fernald, are the passengers from the ‘Griswold’ being taken aboard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any women among them?”
“Several, sir.”
“Some that do not require attention themselves and can lend a hand here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then will you find two who will volunteer to come here, and ask them to do so immediately?”
“At once, sir.”
By the time that Darrin had hung up the instrument, Hunter, the ship’s medical officer, had reached the doorway. He came in and bent over the figure on the berth.
“Not a chance,” he said, briefly. “Drowned. But I do not believe, Darrin, that she suffered. There was a shock—”
“Shock?” Dave Darrin repeated. “Yes—a shell exploded in her boat.”
“I do not believe she was wounded,” went on Hunter. “It must have been the shock. She probably collapsed from the force of the explosion, and the water did the rest.”
A messenger knocked at the doorway, then introduced two middle-aged women, who stepped inside promptly.
“You will do something, of course, Hunter?” Dave queried. “You will attempt resuscitation—you will try to revive her?”
“I’ll try, of course,” replied the medical man, dubiously. “Yes. I will work like a fiend, Darrin. Sometimes a spark of life lingers. But do not hope!”
“I shall be in the corridor outside,” Dave answered quietly. “Call me when—”
Dry-eyed, but utterly haggard, Darrin stepped out into the passageway. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened—didn’t, in fact. It must be a dream, but soon there would be an awakening!
To his dazed mind the time did not seem long. Inside, he could hear low-voiced directions, and once he heard Hunter say:
“That much water off her lungs, anyway. My guess was right. She must have swallowed a good deal.”
Then he heard Hunter using the telephone. Not long afterward a hospital man came hurrying from the sick-bay with two bags, and vanished into the cabin with them, coming out at once.
Another interval, and then Darrin was called into his cabin. In the meantime, with the help of his steward, he had changed his own clothes.
“Any hope?” he asked, in a low voice.
“There’s a barest trace of pulse,” the ship’s surgeon replied, “but I do not believe it will last. I’m sorry. I’m doing everything that can possibly be done.”
“I’m sure you are, Hunter,” Dave replied.
Belle, whom the women had disrobed and rubbed, was now covered with blankets. One of the women, with a hand under the blankets, was applying a battery current.
Dave stepped forward, taking a long look at the white face and the closed eyes. Not even his hopes could conjure up the belief that a spark of life remained that could be fanned into renewed existence.
Still it was not real! Belle’s spirit had not flown and left him. Hunter, eyeing his commanding officer for an instant, read his mind; he understood and felt a great surge of sympathy for Darrin.
“Poor chap!” murmured the medico. “It will be all the harder when he really does come to himself!”
A glance downward at his uniform reminded Dave that he was still an officer, that hundreds of people had been close to death, that some undoubtedly had perished, and that he could not neglect his sworn duties.
Stepping to the telephone that connected with the bridge, he heard himself answered by the voice of his executive officer.
“Am I needed, Fernald?” he asked.
“No, sir. We’re still taking the rescued on board, but there is nothing you could do that is not being done by the rest of us. Any good news with you, sir?”
“Not yet, but there will be,” Dave answered. “Thank you.”
Then he glanced back toward the berth, to see that Dr. Hunter had prepared some liquid medicine that he was now trying to force between Belle’s lips. He stepped over beside the berth and watched.
“There! She’ll soon speak to us,” Dave declared, as he saw Belle’s eyelids flutter almost imperceptibly, and heard the faintest kind of a sigh.
Hunter, who knew that Life and Death were fighting, with Death going strong, did not reply, but stood with eyes fixed on the patient’s face. He did not look for her to become conscious enough to speak.
Two or three minutes dragged miserably by. The surgeon dreaded to pronounce the words which he felt must soon be said. One of the women was still applying the battery current, the other chafing Belle’s left wrist and arm. Hunter placed his stethoscope to her chest and listened, his face wholly grave.
There was another faint flutter of the lids, another faint sigh.
“You’ll soon speak to me, won’t you, Belle?” Dave urged, quietly, but in that silent cabin his every word was distinct.
“Shall I apply the battery to another part of the body, Doctor?” asked one of the women after a few minutes.
“One part will do as well as another,” Hunter answered, in a very low voice. The woman understood, but she said no word, gave no sign, but went on with her task.
“Come, Belle,” spoke Dave, now with an effort at cheeriness of tone, “we’re losing a lot of time, little girl.”
This time there was a somewhat more pronounced fluttering of the lids. Then came a sigh that sounded like a catching of the breath.
“Say!” murmured Hunter, in the awe of a new discovery. “That’s the thing to do, Darrin! Go on talking to her. I believe that she knows, that your voice reaches her subconsciously. Talk, man, talk! But easily.”
So Darrin, with a hand resting with a feather’s weight on Belle’s pallid forehead, went on speaking. It made little difference what he said, but every word was cheery, tender.
At last there came a longer flutter, a quicker, deeper sigh. Belle fought with her eyelids, then parted them, gazing vacantly until she saw Darrin’s bronzed face.
“All right now, Belle, aren’t you?” he called to her. “An all-right little girl again?”
“Dave—my—lad!”
The whisper came so low that only Darrin heard it. But Hunter lost nothing of the scene. His hand was on Belle’s pulse.
“Go on talking to her,” he whispered. “That’s the right medicine.”
So Dave continued, as cheerily as before. Belle Darrin could not follow all that he said. There was a trace of bewilderment in her eyes. The lids still fluttered, although she now breathed regularly even if low.
“That’s all, sir. Now step outside until you’re called,” Hunter ordered, with the air of a man who has learned something new and who means to claim all the credit.
Without a word of protest Dave turned, pushed aside the curtain and stepped outside into the passage.
“How is she?” whispered a familiar voice.
“Dan!”
“I came over as soon as I got word. The passengers have been rescued in great shape. But how is Belle?”
“Weak, but she’s going to mend all right—thank heaven!”
Their hands gripped.
“I was greatly worried,” Dan confessed in a low tone.
“Hang it all,” Darrin admitted, a new joy in his own low tones, “I believe I would have been worried to death if I had realized how all the chances were against me. But I felt as though such a thing as Belle’s death couldn’t be—and so it didn’t happen.”
“You’re not talking very straight, chum, but I understand you,” Dan nodded.
“And now, as to our duties,” Dave went on. “Fernald assured me he could attend to everything, and I knew that of course he could. So I let him. Were any of the ‘Griswold’s’ passengers lost? Yes, of course some must have been, for I saw the shell strike in that boat—the one Belle was in.”
“Three were killed by the exploding shell, and you have two on board who were wounded by fragments. Two more were drowned—probably because the shock stunned them and left them helpless in the water.”
“And I have been keeping Hunter with Belle all this time!” Dave uttered, rather shamefacedly. “I must call him. Perhaps he can revive the two who seemed to be drowned. Besides, some of the others need assistance.”
“Not a chance of it,” Dan continued. “I’ve had my own medico and two sick-bay men working over the cases. Both patients are dead. And there are others missing. Your executive officer is having lists made. Fortunately the ‘Griswold’s’ crew and passenger lists were saved. Your ship and mine have on board all who were picked up. Fernald should soon know just who were lost.”
So Hunter and the two women remained with Belle Darrin. Half an hour later Dave was called back into the cabin. Dan, who had remained with him all this time, still stayed outside.
“I’m going to be all right, Dave, as you can see for yourself,” Belle smiled, brightly, though her voice was but little above a whisper. “So you got me out of the water yourself? They have told me that much.”
“You’re all right again, little girl, but you must gain a lot of strength,” Dave answered, joyously. “I see old Hunter looking at me frowningly this minute—”
“I wasn’t,” interrupted the ship’s surgeon, “but you have the right idea, anyway. Mrs. Darrin is going to need sleep now, and then something light and nourishing to eat. So you’d better return to your duties, sir, and look me up later in the evening.”
“Good little girl!” Dave whispered, bending over and kissing Belle on the forehead. “I knew you’d finish your cruise all right. Now, I’m going to obey the surgeon’s orders. I’ll come back at the very earliest moment that I’m allowed to do so.”
Outside he thrust an arm gaily under Dalzell’s, and in this fashion the two chums walked briskly to the deck and bridge. They were soon busy with the figures of the day’s work. Between them, the “Grigsby” and the “Reed” had picked up nearly two hundred and fifty persons. Both craft were crowded. Five bodies had been recovered from the water, and about fifteen more people were listed as missing, though every effort had been made to discover more of those who were missing.
“I hate to think what would happen,” muttered Dalzell, “if an enemy submarine were to get between our two craft and let us have it right now—a strike against each of our ships!”
Right at that instant there came to their ears the jarring hail:
“’Ware torpedo! Headed starboard—amidships!”
Dave did not glance for the tell-tale torpedo trail. His hand signalled the engine-room for fullest speed. His voice gave the order for the sweeping turn that the “Grigsby” quickly made.
A few breathless seconds. The destroyer turned, then swung her stern again.
The “Grigsby” leaped forward, her bow aimed at the slender shaft of a periscope that lay in outline against the water.
Yonder, half a mile away, the “Reed” had executed a similar movement. The two destroyers were racing toward each other, each bent on ramming the new monster that had appeared between them. But Dave did not forget his forward guns.
Springing from the bridge he himself took station behind one of the guns just as the breech was closed on a load.
“I haven’t yet sighted a gun on this ship,” he announced, coolly. “I want to see what I can do.”
Seldom had a piece been aimed more quickly on any naval craft. Darrin fell back as the piece was fired. He had aimed to strike under water at the base of that periscope. This had seemed the best chance, though he knew the power of water in deflecting a shell aimed through it.
“A hit!” cried an ensign, as he beheld the periscope itself waver, then stand nearly straight before it was hauled swiftly in.
“A hit—a good one!” came the signal from the “Reed.”
“I believe we did smash the hound!” chuckled Darrin, leaning forward and taking the glass that was placed at his hand.
“Yes, sir. I can make out the oil patch ahead.”
With the glass to his eyes Darrin confirmed this report.
“That was unusual luck,” he said, coolly.
“Unusual shooting, I’d say, sir,” voiced the ensign.
“It’s over, anyway, with that Hun pirate,” declared Darrin. He ordered the course changed as soon as Dan left for his own ship. Then he went to the radio room to dictate a message to American naval headquarters at the home port. That message told of the rescue of all but a score of the crew and passengers from the sunken “Griswold,” and also of the now crowded condition of both destroyers.
Within fifteen minutes the orders from shore arrived, in this form:
“Come in with rescued passengers and crew. Commanding officers of ‘Grigsby’ and ‘Reed’ directed report for new orders.”
If Dave was anxious to have Belle safe on shore, the jackies on the two craft were hardly less eager to put all the civilians ashore as soon as possible, that the ships’ crews might once more have elbow room.
It was not until evening that port was made. On the trip Dave Darrin barely left the bridge, but remained on duty hour after hour, refusing to close his eyes. He would take no chances whatever with this most precious cargo of men and women.
By the time that the destroyer had reached moorings, Belle was able to go up on deck, on Dave’s arm. He took her ashore at once, placed her in a hotel, and arranged for medical attendance to be summoned if needed. And Runkle, with shore leave for the night, insisted on remaining in the hotel, where he could be called at any instant when Mrs. Darrin might need anything that he could do for her.
Though the flag lieutenant was present at the interview which followed at naval headquarters, it was the admiral himself who received Dave and Dan.
“You report more good luck—fine management, too!” cried the admiral, his face beaming. “You two officers do not seem to be able to put to sea without running into the sort of doings that make fine reading in the newspapers at home. You have made wonderful drives against the submarines, but your nerves must be well gone to pieces by this time.”
“No, sir,” Darrin replied. “I’m ready for new sailing orders to-night.”
“You won’t get them,” the admiral retorted, bluntly. “Mr. Darrin, your wife, and ill at that, is ashore, I am informed. She was one of your rescued ones to-day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is she wholly recovered?”
“She will be, by morning, sir.”
“And you are professing willingness to go on board and start with new sea orders to-night!”
“In war time, sir, I must think only of my work,” Dave answered.
For a few moments the admiral sat there, regarding both young officers keenly.
“You’re splendid fellows, both of you,” the older man said, at last. “So good, in fact, that you’re soon to be moved from these waters.”
Darrin bowed, and so did Dalzell, but neither asked questions.
“A ranking British naval officer told me, this afternoon,” continued the admiral, “that he felt the British admiralty could well afford to trade its best battleship for the services of two such officers as you young gentlemen.”
“Are we to be turned over to join the British, sir?” asked Dave, a look of alarm in his bronzed face. “To serve in the British Navy?”
“Would you accept such an assignment?” queried the admiral.
Dave glanced swiftly at his chum before he replied for both:
“Sir, we’d go anywhere, perform any duty, under any flag, and under any conditions, at the request of our own Government,” Darrin answered. “We do not belong to ourselves, but to the United States, and, through our Government, to any nation on earth to which our Government should wish to transfer us. At the same time, our choice would naturally be for service in our own American Navy.”
“And that is just where it is going to be—with your own crowd,” smiled the admiral. “You will also command the same craft on which you came in this evening. But you will be changed to other waters, and you will have a somewhat different line of duty—a more dangerous line, in many ways, I may add. But the British Admiralty, in making a request of me, specified distinctly that it trusted I would be able to detail you two young officers to the work. That new work, as I just said, will also be in other waters.”
The admiral paused for a moment, but presently went on to say:
“The new duty to which you are to be detailed was known to me some time ago. That was why you were ordered to your present new commands. We wanted you to try out both destroyers, that you might know all their capabilities. Even had you struck no fresh adventures you would have been recalled by to-morrow. But you know your craft now, and each of you has tested out and learned his junior officers, and now you are surely in readiness for your new field of work.”
“However, there are some slight but necessary changes to be made in the ‘Grigsby’ and the ‘Reed’ before they will be ready for their new work. To-morrow a naval constructor will go aboard each of your ships and take charge of the alterations to be made and the new equipment to be installed. For that reason you will both be able to spend the greater part of your time on shore during the coming week.”
Within the next few minutes the admiral detailed to the delighted young officers the nature of the new work that was to be required of them. It was as dangerous as he had stated. It would also call for their tireless attention night and day. The admiral, however, could not daunt them. Work and danger are the corner-stones of successful war, and the eyes of the young naval officers shone as they saw the fullness of their new opportunity to serve.
“I shall be glad to receive my final orders, sir, at any hour, night or day,” Dave Darrin announced, as he rose.
“And I shall be, also, sir,” Dalzell promptly added.
“A week’s rest, anyway, will make you both keener and better fitted for the big job you’ve ahead of you. Gentlemen, my heartiest congratulations for your work during the last few weeks. You will do even better on your next cruise. Good-night, gentlemen.”
Back to the hotel they went. Belle was now able to chat with them, though she preferred to sit back in a big chair and to listen to their own modest accounts of what they had seen and done during the latest thrilling weeks in their lives.
The next day Belle was able to go out with her husband. After that she mended rapidly.
All too soon the period of rest and delightful recreation ended. Belle went on to her Red Cross work in France, and the orders came for which both these young naval officers were so eagerly waiting.
But what these orders were, and into what new fields of fighting it led the two naval chums, must be reserved for the next volume of this series, which will be published under the title: “Dave Darrin After the Mine Layers; or Hitting the Enemy a Hard Naval Blow.”
In this splendid new volume the newest developments of sea fighting in the late war will be set forth with a fidelity and compelling interest that will hold the attention of every reader.
THE END