Title: The Pirate Submarine
Author: Westerman, Percy F. (Percy Francis)
Language: English
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THE PIRATE

SUBMARINE

PERCY F. WESTERMAN



THE CHAMPION SERIES



THE PIRATE SUBMARINE



  _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
  --------------------------------
  CAPTAIN CAIN
  THE FLYING SUBMARINE
  THE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN SPURS


[Illustration: EVEN AS THE MESSAGE WAS BEING SIGNALLED THE _ALERTE_
BEGAN TO SETTLE]



  THE PIRATE
  SUBMARINE



  BY
  PERCY F. WESTERMAN



  [Illustration: logo]



  London
  NISBET & CO. LTD.
  22 BERNERS STREET, W. 1



  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
  MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., LONDON AND EDINBURGH
  P 1980



                          CONTENTS
         CHAP.                                PAGE
      I. A PAIR OF ROGUES . . . . . . . . . . .  1
     II. THE PIRATE CREW SIGN ON. . . . . . . . 13
    III. THE _ALERTE_ SAILS . . . . . . . . . . 22
     IV. THE FIRST HAUL . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
      V. THE RENDEZVOUS . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
     VI. THE LAST OF THE _IBEX_ . . . . . . . . 65
    VII. THE CAPTURE OF THE _CAP HOORN_ . . . . 84
   VIII. A PROPOSAL SCORNED . . . . . . . . . . 96
     IX. A DASH FOR LIBERTY . . . . . . . . . .109
      X. BRUTE STRENGTH . . . . . . . . . . . .123
     XI. THE FIGHT WITH THE _SURCOUF_ . . . . .136
    XII. HUNTED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .145
   XIII. A BAFFLED QUEST. . . . . . . . . . . .157
    XIV. A BROKEN REED. . . . . . . . . . . . .164
     XV. THE OIL-TANKER . . . . . . . . . . . .172
    XVI. THE STOWAWAYS. . . . . . . . . . . . .182
   XVII. GETTING TO WIND'ARD OF PENGELLY. . . .196
  XVIII. THE DESTROYER AND THE DESTROYED. . . .215
    XIX. RECALLED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .232
     XX. THE AFFAIR OF THE _BRONX CITY_ . . . .236
    XXI. MUTINY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .245
   XXII. A STERN CHASE. . . . . . . . . . . . .262
  XXIII. CAIN RESUMES COMMAND . . . . . . . . .272
   XXIV. THE FATE OF THE PIRATE SUBMARINE . . .281



THE PIRATE SUBMARINE



CHAPTER I

A PAIR OF ROGUES


"THAT'S done it! Scrap brass has fallen another thirty shillings a
ton, Pengelly. The slump has knocked the bottom out of the market.
We're in the soup."

Thus spoke Tom Trevorrick, senior partner of the firm of Trevorrick,
Pengelly & Co., shipbreakers, of Polkyll, near Falmouth. He was a
tall, powerfully-built man, standing six feet two and a half inches
in his socks, red-haired, florid featured, with a high though
receding forehead and a heavy protruding jaw. His rich deep voice
had a plausible ring about it--a compelling, masterful yet
persuasive tone, that had largely influenced the shareholders of
Trevorrick, Pengelly & Co. to part with their money with the
absolute certainty of a pre-war ten per cent. return.

Paul Pengelly, aged thirty-three, or three years older than the
senior partner, was of different build and temperament. Trevorrick
represented the Celtic strain of Cornishmen; Pengelly had dark curly
hair and sallow features--legacies of an Iberian ancestor, one of a
handful of survivors from a vessel of the Spanish Armada that had
been cast ashore on the rock-bound Lizard. History does not relate
why the Cornish wreckers spared the lives of the olive-featured
mariners, but it does record that the shipwrecked Spaniards took
wives of the Cornish maids, and lived and died in the country of
their adoption.

Pengelly was slow of speech, stolid in action save when roused to
anger. Of an argumentative nature, he acted as a foil to his
partner's exuberance. If Trevorrick suggested a certain course,
Pengelly almost invariably went dead against it, not that he
disapproved of the scheme, but simply as a matter of habit. He was
secretive and cautious; but he never hesitated to do an underhand
action if he felt reasonably secure from detection.

He was a man of many parts--a jack-of-all-trades and master of a
few. Given to building castles in the air, he would soar to dizzy
heights in planning fantastic schemes. Some of them might take
definite shape; then, almost without warning, he would "chuck his
hand in" and cast about for something else.

Eighteen months previously, Trevorrick and Pengelly had met for the
first time. Trevorrick had just left the Royal Navy. He had been a
lieutenant-commander attached to the Portsmouth submarine flotilla.
He had not resigned under the favourable terms offered by My Lords
to redundant officers; he had not been "axed" under the Geddes
Scheme. He had been courtmartialled and dismissed from the Service
under circumstances that could not be termed extenuating.

Trevorrick was at a loose end when he encountered Pengelly. He had a
limited amount of capital. So had Pengelly. The latter's latest
scheme appealed to the ex-lieutenant-commander. Just then, hundreds
of ships of all sizes were being sold out of the Service for
breaking-up purposes. There was money to be made out of the
business, with very little capital required for plant, while surplus
destroyers and submarines could be bought at a flat rate of one
pound per ton, subject to the condition that they had to be broken
up.

Of the hundreds, nay, thousands of people who patronise the little
steamers plying between Falmouth and Truro--or Malpas, according to
the state of the tide few are likely to notice a small creek on the
starboard hand of the picturesque river Fal. Fewer still know it by
name.

Its entrance is narrow, between steeply rising, heavily wooded
ground. Although barely twenty-five yards in width across its mouth,
it carries nearly thirty feet of water at Springs. Two hundred yards
up, the creek widens out. One bank retains its precipitous,
tree-clad nature. The other dips, forming a wide bay, with a flat
belt of ground between the shore and the high ground beyond.

On this site, hidden from the Fal by a bend in the channel, stood a
derelict shipyard. A century ago, when Falmouth was at the height of
its prosperity as a packet-station, the shipyard teemed with
activity. It enjoyed a brief and illusory spell of life during the
Great War, when it again sank into obscurity and neglect. The two
slipways were left to rot, two tidal docks were allowed to silt up.
The buildings were ruinous and leaky. The whole concern was in the
hands of the Official Receiver.

To the delectable spot came Trevorrick and Pengelly. They looked at
it. Trevorrick lost no time in declaring that it was "the" place;
Pengelly asserted that it was not. The big man had his way, and thus
the Polkyll Creek Shipbreaking Company came into being.

They started modestly upon their enterprise. The heaviest item for
plant was the purchase of an oxygen-acetylene apparatus. At first,
ten hands were engaged. Pengelly wanted to obtain them locally.
Trevorrick, as usual, overruled him, and as a result inserted in a
Plymouth paper an advertisement for ex-Naval and Mercantile Marine
men. They received shoals of replies and could pick and choose,
without having to pay Trade Union rates.

"We'll have unmarried men," declared the senior partner. "They won't
be wanting to run away home every five minutes."

"Married men are more likely to stick to their jobs," objected
Pengelly.

"No one but a born fool would chuck up a job nowadays," retorted
Trevorrick. "They are none too plentiful."

In due course, the shipbreaking yard began to function. A destroyer
and a submarine were purchased at Devonport and towed round to
Falmouth and up the Fal to Polkyll. The scrap metal was sent up to
Truro in barges and thence transferred to goods train for the Welsh
smelting works. So profitable was the venture that three more
vessels were bought for demolition, twenty additional hands taken
on, and the firm of Trevorrick and Pengelly became a limited
liability company.

So far, things were going smoothly. The two principals got on
amicably, which was rather to be wondered at, since Trevorrick was
apt to boast that he had had heaps of friends and had never been
able to keep one of them. No doubt, the totally dissimilar physical
and mental characteristics of each kept them in a state of mutual
docility; but already Pengelly was tiring of the monotonous work,
and Trevorrick was scheming to get away to a livelier spot than the
dead-and-alive Polkyll Creek.

Then, slowly but surely, came the slump. The shareholders had their
first dividends--ten per cent.--paid out of the capital. Another
dividend was shortly due and there was no possible chance of it
being forthcoming, unless Trevorrick and Pengelly drew upon their
capital--a step that each was firmly determined not to take.

"Are we in the soup?" asked Pengelly, in reply to his partner's
pessimistic declaration. "What do you suggest?"

"Pack up and clear off," replied the senior partner. "Lay hands on
all the ready money we can possibly get hold of, and make ourselves
scarce."

"How about the shareholders?" asked Pengelly. Trevorrick shrugged
his shoulders.

"Shareholders have lost money before to-day," he remarked. "That's
their affair."

"That's all right as far as we are concerned, if they take it lying
down," objected the other. "S'posing they don't? What then? We
wouldn't be safe for twenty-four hours in this country. We might try
our luck abroad."

It was Trevorrick's turn to offer objections.

"Don't fancy the idea, especially with a warrant hanging over my
head. Fellows who issue fraudulent balance sheets (Pengelly winced)
get it in the neck pretty badly when they're caught. I've no fancy
for seven years behind prison bars. And there's another thing. How
long could either of us hang out abroad with what money we can lay
our hands on? Six months. After that--_phut_!"

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Depends," replied Trevorrick. "Fifty thousand apiece and a snug
hiding-place in one of the South American republics."

"Takes some doing."

"It can be done."

"How?"

The two men looked at each other, trying to fathom the depths to
which either would be prepared to go.

"How?" asked Pengelly again. "Holding up a bank, for example.

"Try again."

"Highway robbery, perhaps."

"Sort of," admitted Trevorrick. "For 'highway' substitute 'high
seas,' and you've got it."

"Piracy, by Jove!" ejaculated Pengelly, with a gleam in his eyes. It
was a case of blood will tell, and Pengellys had in bygone days
sailed under the Jolly Roger; more than one had made a public
spectacle at Execution Dock. "'That's funny, deuced funny," he added
after a pause.

"I've been thinking of that myself."

"It'll require a jolly sight more than thinking," remarked
Trevorrick grimly.

"It's risky."

"Course it is. So's everything, if you go the wrong way about it.
Take shipbreaking: you might get cut in two by a chunk of steel
plate, or you might try the business end of an oxygen-acetylene
flame. That's happened before to-day."

"You--I mean, we--would probably be caught inside of a week," said
Pengelly, resuming his habit of raising objections. "Aircraft and
wireless don't give a fellow much of a chance."

"Not if we played our cards properly."

"Don't see how," rejoined the little man petulantly. "And when we're
collared----"

He completed the sentence by a double gesture--a circular motion of
his right hand in a horizontal plane followed by a rapid vertical
movement.

"Better that than seven years," said Trevorrick coolly. "But you're
showing the white feather already."

"Surely you're joking about it?"

"Never more serious in all my life," the senior partner hastened to
assure him. "The audacity of the thing is in our favour. Ask any
naval expert. He'll tell you that piracy, except in the Red Sea and
the China Station, is as dead as Queen Anne. I'm going to show the
blamed experts that they're talking through their hats."

"But----"

"Don't start butting in with your confounded 'buts,'" exclaimed
Trevorrick, with a tinge of asperity. "You say you've been
considering the matter. How far have you gone into the practical
side of it? I can make a pretty shrewd guess. You haven't even
scratched the epidermis of the problem. I have. Cast your eyes over
this."

From his pocket-box, Trevorrick produced a leaf of a notebook. On it
was written in small, carefully-formed letters, the following:

  1. The vessel.
  2. Crew.
  3. Maintenance.
  4. Cruising limits.
  5. Communication with shore.

"Now," continued Trevorrick briskly, "I've gone deeply into the
question. We'll run over the various items. Then we can discuss
details; but remember, I want constructive, not destructive
criticism. Here I am trying to put you on to a get-rich-quick
scheme. That's the main idea. It's for your benefit--and mine.
First, the ship. I propose adopting R 81."

R 81 was the Polkyll Creek Shipbreaking Yard's latest acquisition.
She had been towed round from Devonport only a couple of days
previously and had been placed in the mud-dock alongside the
rapidly-disintegrating hull of her former sister-submarine R 67.

"Bless my soul, man!" interrupted Pengelly, heedless of the senior
partner's caution. "You'd never get her outside Falmouth Harbour."

"You're bearing in mind the Admiralty inspector," declared
Trevorrick, purposely refraining from showing displeasure at the
interruption. "He'll be here to-morrow or Friday. After that, it
will be three months before he shows up again. Then I can manage him
all right. No, I don't intend to offer him half a crown to look the
other way. But there's not the slightest reason why we shouldn't
hoodwink him. The moment he goes after his next visit, we'll start
operations. R 81 goes under the covered shed; R 67 will be moved
into R 81's berth. It's not altogether a stroke of luck that we
haven't started cutting into R 67's hull below the waterline. When
the inspector comes again he won't see R 67. She'll be broken up
entirely as far as he's concerned. R 67 will assume R 81's number.
We'll leave enough of the hull for that. The pirate submarine, ex-R
81, will already be nearing completion well out of the sight of the
official eye."

"Trevorrick, I always thought I had the bump of imagination,"
declared Pengelly. "I give you best."

"Imagination isn't of much use, unless you put it to a practical
purpose," rejoined the other. "What I'm proposing can be done; more,
it's going to be done."

"But----"

"There you go again," interrupted Trevorrick tolerantly. "Carry on,
then. Trot out your objections. We'll argue all along the line as we
go. What were you about to remark?"

"We'll assume that you've bamboozled the Admiralty Nosey Parker,
whose business it is to bind us to our contract," said Pengelly.
"You've got the submarine fit, more or less, for sea. You'd have to
take her down the Fal on the surface. There's not enough water to
submerge. Day or night, you'd be spotted; and there'd be questions
asked."

"Pengelly, your Christian name ought to be Thomas, not Paul,"
remarked Trevorrick, in a bantering tone. He could afford to try to
be facetious. He knew enough of his partner by this time to realise
that the greater the objections the latter raised, the more chance
he, Trevorrick, had of gaining his case--as he almost invariably
did. "I'm going to take her out of Falmouth as a surface ship. I'd
defy any one to think her to be otherwise than an old tramp without
they actually came on board, which I don't intend that they should.
We've got the materials. In a couple of months we'll build up a
superstructure, rig dummy masts and funnels, and there you are. What
have you to say against that?"

"Top-hamper," declared Pengelly bluntly. What do you propose doing
when she dives? Ditch the lot? If you don't, she'll roll over when
she's submerged. And what speed do you expect you'll get when
running beneath the surface, assuming she doesn't turn turtle?"

"Top-hamper judiciously constructed will make no difference to her
stability when submerged," replied the other. "All that requires to
be done is to see that the superstructure, taken as a whole, weighs
the same as the quantity of water it displaces--fairly simple matter
if we make use of air-tight tanks and compartments packed with cork.
Speed under the surface doesn't count for much in our case. Storage
batteries are a nuisance at the best of times. No, I mean to
submerge and rest on the bottom in the event of an attack. She's
built to withstand, with an ample margin of safety, a depth of
twenty-five fathoms."

"Armament--guns and torpedoes--then," resumed Pengelly. "That's
going to knock you. Torpedoes don't grow on blackberry bushes, and
you can't go trotting about with a six-inch quick-firer under your
arm. Supposing Elswicks or Vickers did accept your order for a
quick-firer, you'd have the police knocking you up to know what your
little game is."

"Torpedoes are out of the question, I'm afraid," admitted
Trevorrick. His fellow-partner grinned with satisfaction. It was one
of those rare occasions when he scored a point with his objections.
"It's a pity; they might have come in handy, especially as they've
left the tubes in the ship. Nothing like a tinfish' to settle an
argument. Guns--no difficulty there. I can buy a 15.2 centimetre
quick-firer of the latest pattern--that's practically six-inch--at
Liége and get it delivered afloat outside Dutch or Belgian
territorial waters for a mere song, with as much ammunition as we're
likely to want. You see, I've made inquiries all along the line
already. Next item: Crew. I'll skip that for the present; but, let me
tell you, there was method in my madness when I was so mighty
particular in the choice of the hands here. Maintenance--that's
easily disposed of. We'll help ourselves, supplementing our store
with purchases from the shore. Now, Cruising Limits. No need to go
very far from home. West Coast of Europe between Finisterre and
Bergen offers enough scope for our little stunt; but it's in the
Channel that I hope to play Cain. No, don't get alarmed, Pengelly.
I'm not out for British shipping unless I'm forced. Hoist German
colours and capture a French vessel; collar a German and tell him
we're a Frenchman. Spin a yarn to a Dutchman while you're going
through his pockets. Bless my soul, man, we'll have our fifty
thousand apiece in no time. That brings me to the last item:
Communication with the shore. We'll have to lay by for a rainy day,
Pengelly--show a clean pair of heels before it's too late. We'll
have to travel light. Can't carry a pantechnicon of booty with us.
We must arrange to have it sent ashore and transferred to a
trustworthy agent in South America. I know of at least half a
dozen."

"How about the crew?" asked Pengelly. "We can't show up at some port
with thirty fellows tacked on to us."

"No need," replied Trevorrick with a grin. "We're not
sentimentalists, nor philanthropists."



CHAPTER II

THE PIRATE CREW SIGN ON


ON the following day, Mr. Chamfer, the Admiralty inspector, arrived.

He was a short, slim-built man with a totally disproportionate sense
of his own importance. Thirty years of Civil Service life had got
him into a rut. It mattered little how he performed his duties as
long as he did them somehow; a monthly visit to the cashier's office
at Devonport Dockyard to draw his salary was an assured thing. At
the end of every year his salary was subject to a fixed increase.
Whether he earned it or not, whether he possessed higher or lower
qualifications than his confrères mattered not at all--the annual
"rise" came with unfailing certainty. Mr. Chamfer was a firm
believer in the principle of following the line of least resistance,
namely, to get through his perfunctory duties with the minimum of
trouble. Provided he was treated with due deference to his position
by the principals of the various shipbreaking firms with whom he had
to deal, the former had no cause to complain of irritating demands
on the part of the Admiralty inspector.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Trevorrick!" he exclaimed. "Fine morning.
Business going strong, I hope? Let me see: R 81 arrived here this
week. Started on her yet?"

"No, sir," replied Trevorrick, with his tongue in his cheek. "We're
engaging ten additional hands for that job. Next time you pay us a
visit you'll find that there's not very much left of her."

"And R 67?" inquired Mr. Chamfer, consulting an official form.

"She's practically demolished," was the reply. "Do you wish to make
an inspection?"

The inspector gave a quick glance out of the office window. Eighty
yards away lay the object under discussion, the gaunt skeleton of a
mammoth, the steel ribs of which were being attacked by a swarm of
workmen, who gave the onlooker the impression that they were
Lilliputians clambering over Gulliver's recumbent form.

"No, thanks; I won't trouble you," he hastened to reply, as he
scribbled, "R 81--work in hand; R 67 practically demolished," in
column six of the official document. "Well, since you suggest it, I
will--just a nip. And soda, please. Well, Mr. Trevorrick, your good
health and success to your work."

Two minutes later, Mr. Chamfer's car was tearing along the Tregony
Road on its way back to Devonport. It would be three months at least
before the official repeated the visit, and much was to happen at
Polkyll Creek before those three months were up.

"Fancy, that little worm draws as much pay as a full-blown captain!"
remarked Trevorrick to his partner. "You and I have to keep
blighters of that sort. Well thank goodness that's over. We'll have
the men up now."

The yard-bell uttered its warning notes. Although it wanted half an
hour to "knock-off time," the thirty employees of the firm of
Trevorrick, Pengelly & Co., promptly left their work and trooped up
to the office, wondering whether the bell had been rung in mistake
or whether something of an unusual nature was on the boards. There
had been rumours, originating goodness only knows where, that the
works might have to close down, and that prospect, with winter only
a few weeks off, was a dismal one.

They trooped into the large office and found Mr. Trevorrick looking
cheerful and self-possessed, with Mr. Pengelly, with a frown on his
face, toying nervously with a paper-knife.

Trevorrick wasted no time in preliminaries.

"Men!" he began. "Present-day conditions of the metal market have
forced us to make preparations for the closing-down of the works. If
there were any indications of a recovery during the next three or
four months we would hold on. Unfortunately, there are none."

He paused, rapidly scanning the features of the dejected men. There
was no doubt about their being downcast. He realised that
figuratively he held them in the hollow of his hand.

"However," he continued, "there is no reason why the amicable
relations between us as employers and employees should not be
maintained; but, let me hasten to remind you that amicable relations
won't fill empty stomachs. Mr. Pengelly and myself are anxious to
put our sincerity to a practical test. It rests with you whether you
decide to take advantage of our offer.

"Before going deeper into the matter, I can assure you of a constant
job, paid for at the same rates that you are receiving at present
with the addition of a bonus, which might be anything up to a couple
of hundred pounds, at the termination of the first year's work. It
may entail discomfort, it is of a hazardous nature, although with
due precautions there is no danger that cannot be avoided. There is
one stipulation I must make--each and every man must be under the
strictest pledge of secrecy."

He paused again. The men shuffled uneasily. Several at the back of
the room whispered hoarsely to each other.

"Is the job straight and above-board, sir?" inquired an anxious
voice.

Trevorrick looked straight at the speaker.

"Naturally," he replied.

His tone carried conviction. Had he said more in reply, the men
might have "smelt a rat."

"Very good, sir; I'm in it," announced the cautious one. Others
joined in accepting the decidedly indefinite offer.

"Any one not wishing to sign on can go," exclaimed Trevorrick. "I
won't blame him for refusing a job about which he knows nothing, but
there are other people's interests to be safeguarded. What! All
agreed? Excellent! Now, Mr. Pengelly, will you please read out the
declaration and obtain every man's signature, please?"

The document binding each employee to secrecy was cleverly worded,
concluding with the affirmative that each man admitted his liability
to be summarily dismissed for insufficiency of work, bad
workmanship, insubordination, turbulence, inebriety or other offence
or misconduct contrary to the rules and regulations of the _Posidon_
Salvage Company.

"There you are, men," exclaimed Trevorrick, after the last signature
had been obtained. "You now know what is the nature of the
work--salvage. I will briefly relate the history of the _Posidon_. Ten
or twelve years ago--in 1916, to be exact--the _Posidon_, bound from
Quebec for the United Kingdom with a cargo consisting mainly of
copper and silver ingots, was torpedoed by a Hun submarine when
about six miles S.S.W. of the Lizard.

"An attempt was made to beach her on Looe Bar, but she turned turtle
and sank in fifteen fathoms. After the Armistice attempts were made
to salve the cargo. Divers went down, found the wreck lying over on
her beam ends. There were a few bars of copper found, but of silver
not a solitary ingot. The explosion of the torpedo had blown away
one side of the strong-room. That discovery brought the salvage work
to an abrupt termination.

"Now then. This is where we come in. From a most trustworthy source,
I found out what actually did happen to the ingots. The _Posidon_
turned turtle and sank, but between the two operations there was an
interval. She drifted bottom-upwards for perhaps half an hour. In
that position the weight of the copper burst open the hatches and
nearly the whole lot was strewn on the bed of the sea. The silver,
too, fell through the blown-in face of the strong-room.
Consequently, when the ship did make her final plunge, she was two
hundred yards away from the spot where she had dumped her precious
cargo. Is that clear?"

A murmur of assent came from the interested listeners. Tales of
sunken treasure waiting to be picked up from a veritable Tom
Tiddler's ground appeal to most people; and Trevorrick's breezy,
convincing manner did not fail to impress the simple-minded
audience.

"You know it's there, sir?" inquired one of the employees, an
ex-seaman diver.

"Certainly, Hunt," replied Trevorrick. "I've seen it. I cannot
produce better proof than that?"

"Any difficulties, sir, in the way of other people being on the same
lay?" asked another.

"The Admiralty, by whom the vessel was chartered, have abandoned
her; the underwriters have settled up and written her off as a bad
debt, although it may be possible that they might want to chip in.
That's why we must conduct our operations in secret. It's all
aboveboard, you'll understand. I wouldn't defraud any one. I have
taken counsel's opinion and have been informed that we have a moral,
legal and every other jolly old right to stick to what we can find.
But we must guard ourselves against others who may try to jump our
claim.

"How? I will tell you. As you know, the Admiralty inspector has just
been here. I took the opportunity to sound him, and he assured me
that there would be no objection on his part against our employing R
81 as a salvage craft. Being fitted with airlocks, enabling a diver
to leave and enter at will, she is an ideal proposition for the job.
The only difficulty is getting her in and out of Falmouth Harbour.
Officious busy-bodies might write to the Admiralty asking why she
was being employed instead of being broken up. I mentioned this to
Mr. Chamfer. He was most sympathetic and hinted--hinted, mind you
--that if R 81 could be sufficiently disguised, there ought to be no
further difficulty. That, with your co-operation, I propose to do."

The men's enthusiasm was rapidly rising. Pengelly gave a glance of
admiration at his partner. There was no doubt about it: Trevorrick
held them in the palm of his hand.

"There's no time to be lost," continued the promoter. "We'll start
this afternoon.... Carry on, men. Barnard and Marchant, will you
remain, please?"

The workmen hurried gleefully out of the office, leaving the two
foremen with whom the principals conferred over certain details in
connection with the fitting out of the submarine.

At length Barnard and Marchant were dismissed, and Trevorrick and
Pengelly found themselves alone.

"Well?" queried the former abruptly. "What do you think of the yarn
I've just been pitching? That got 'em, didn't it?"

Pengelly nodded.

"So far, I admit," he replied. "But----"

"Go on, man; get it off your chest," prompted the senior partner,
now in high good humour.

"S'posing we get R 81 under way. How do you propose to switch over
from salvaging to piracy? That'll take some doing."

"Possibly," admitted Trevorrick. "But I'll do it. You wait and see.
By the bye," he continued, abruptly changing the subject. "What was
that yarn you were telling me about Chamfer?--Something about him
coming into a pot of money."

"Yes, lucky bounder," replied Pengelly enviously. "Some misguided
relative of his shuffled off this mortal coil about two years ago
and left him thirty thousand pounds."

"Hanged if I'd stop in the Admiralty service with that little lot,"
remarked Trevorrick. "Even though he's got a soft billet. I'd blow
the lot in a couple of years. 'Easy come, easy go' is my motto."

"He's evidently of a different nature," said Pengelly. "But why do
you ask?"

"Nothing much," was the response. "Look here, Pengelly, we'll have
to throw dust in the eyes of the shareholders. Can we run to another
five per cent.?"

"It will cut into our capital."

"It'll have to," decided Trevorrick. "We'll declare a half-yearly
dividend. On the strength of that we might apply for extra capital.
And another thing: you'd better run across to Penzance within the
next few days and sound your pal, Port--What's his name?"

"Porthoustoc--Silas Porthoustoc."

"That's the fellow. We'll want him and his lugger. He's sound, isn't
he?"

"Do anything," replied Pengelly. "If he were put to it, he'd be a
second King o' Prussia.[1] Nod's as good as a wink to him--at his
price."

"I wouldn't let him know too much," suggested Trevorrick. "At least,
not at first. Once I get him in my power sufficiently, I can put a
half-nelson over him in double-quick time. Then he daren't open his
mouth--price or no price."

Pengelly eyed his companion dubiously.

"You're not going to try that game on me, I hope?" he asked.

Trevorrick brought his huge hand heavily down on his partner's
shoulder.

"Come now," he exclaimed. "You know the saying, 'Honour amongst
thieves?' Aren't we sworn comrades under the Jolly Roger?"

Pengelly nodded.

"I'd like to remind him of another saw," he soliloquised. "'When
thieves fall out.' But perhaps I'd better not."


[1] King of Prussia: soubriquet of John Carter, a noted Cornish
smuggler, who in the latter part of the eighteenth century held and
fortified Porth Leah, a few miles east of Marazion, as a smuggling
base. On one occasion he fired the guns at a revenue cutter. On
another he broke into the Custom-House at Penzance and recovered
various contraband goods which the Excise people had seized, taking
only "his own" and no more. Carter was a sort of Cornish maritime
Robin Hood. Porth Leah is now called Prussia Cove in memory of this
daring smuggler.



CHAPTER III

THE _ALERTE_ SAILS


THAT same afternoon, there being a full moon on the previous day,
the spring tide was at its highest at about six o'clock. The
conditions being favourable, R 81 was moved into the covered-in
slip, while the shell of R 67 was placed in the berth vacated by her
practically intact sister.

When employed as active units under the white ensign, these boats
had a surface displacement of 420 tons; submerged, this displacement
was increased to the extent of 80 tons. Their speed when on the
surface was 15 knots; while submerged, this was reduced to nine. The
propelling machinery consisted of semi-Diesel engines for surface
work, 13 tons of oil being carried for that purpose. In diving-trim
this class relied upon electric motors, the "juice" being kept in
numbers of storage batteries that had frequently to be recharged.

In her present state, R 81 retained her engines. To get these tuned
up was not a difficult matter. The batteries had deteriorated to
such an extent as to be useless.

Trevorrick decided to scrap them. He had no intention of driving R
81 under the water. In the event of danger he could submerge and
"lie doggo" until he deemed it prudent to break surface. Thus, he
cut out an important item in the running costs.

Meanwhile, the roar of the oxygen-acetylene plant had given place to
the rattle of riveting-hammers and drilling-machines. All hands
worked with a zest, prompted by the hope that they were
participators in a profit-sharing scheme. To guard against
intruders, watchmen were posted by night, while a boom of timber was
stretched across the mouth of Polkyll Creek, to which a noticeboard
was affixed with the intimation that "This Creek is temporarily
closed to Navigation. Dangerous. By Order."

By whose order it was not stated. Few craft other than pleasure
skiffs ever penetrated the secluded backwater, and the season was
too late for picnic parties. Some of the local fishermen were "up
against" the infringement of their rights, but a judicious
expenditure on beer quickly removed their opposition to the
temporary closing of the creek.

Quickly the task of disguising the submarine as a tramp steamer
progressed. Vertical girders bolted to her bulging sides formed the
framework for the side-plating. She was given a raised fo'c'sle and
poop; while amidships, by an ingenious arrangement, was a raised
structure that could with little trouble be moved fore and aft. On
the structure was the dummy charthouse with a funnel in its wake.
Thus, by altering the position of the midship structure, the
submarine would present the appearance of a "three island vessel" or
one of the coasting type with the funnel well aft. In addition, she
was given a pair of stumpy masts with derricks, so arranged to be
lowered should occasion arise. Ventilating cowls were fixed to
various positions on deck, each with a duplicate base, in order to
alter the general appearance. Two boats were carried in davits, each
constructed of sheet metal and fitted with valves that enabled them
to be easily filled and emptied when the submarine dived or came to
the surface as the case might be.

In two months from the time the work was first put in hand, R 81,
rechristened _Alerte_ of London, was floated out and moored in the
centre of Polkyll Creek. If necessary, her presence could be
explained by saying that she was about to take a cargo of scrap
metal round to Cardiff.

Even at close distance it would be almost impossible for the most
practised eye to discover the fake, unless the observer actually
went on board. With her black sides streaked with iron rust, her
stumpy masts and buff funnel with a black top, she was like many a
hundred tramps that nosed their way coastwise from Thurso to
Penzance and from Wick to Falmouth.

To complete the deception, Pengelly, who was a skilful penman, made
a fictitious "Certificate of Registry" and other necessary ship's
papers. Nor was he content with one of each. Six different sets,
each in a different name, were prepared and placed on board.

At an early stage in the proceedings, Pengelly had gone over to
Penzance in order to interview and enlist the services of that tough
old salt Silas Porthoustoc. At the merest hint that he proposed to
run a cargo, the skipper of the lugger's eyes gleamed.

"What be't, maaster?" he inquired. "Spirits, lace, or what not?"

"Neither at present," was the reply. "But something highly
contraband."

"So much the better, say I," grunted Silas. "Where be to?"

"What's the size of your hold?" asked Pengelly, without answering
Porthoustoc's question.

"Say twelve feet by six an' you'll not be far adrift."

"That's the hatch?"

"Ay, of course," replied Silas. "Reckon as 'ow I could stow a
twenty-five feet spar if I wur put to it."

"Good enough," agreed Pengelly. "Here are your orders: Three miles
S.S.E. of the North Hinder Light, between midnight and dawn on the
17th."

"Good," chuckled the old man. "Then ut be Schnapps after all?"

"Sort of," admitted Pengelly. "You'll find a motor cargo-boat
waiting for you. She'll show three long and three short flashes
every half-hour, till you answer her by the prearranged signal. It's
all set down on this paper. Our rendezvous----"

"What'll that be, maaster?" interrupted Silas.

"Meeting-place," explained the other. "Will be ten miles sou' by
west of St. Alban's Head. Recognition signals the same. Payment
fifty pounds down and five per cent. on all subsequent
consignments--and we'll keep you pretty busy. Not much risk, either,
if you know your job."

"Guess I knows my job, all right," chuckled Porthoustoc.

"Good!" ejaculated Pengelly. "If there's much of a lop on outside
you'd best run up the West Scheldt. You'll find your cargo waiting
for you off Neuzen. Know it?"

"Find my way in blindfold," declared Silas. "I'd like to have a quid
for every lil' keg I've brought out o' they parts. The _Fairy_'ll be
on the spot to time, blow high, blow low, maaster."

Having secured an ally, although Silas Porthoustoc was in ignorance
of the real project of his employer, Pengelly returned to Polkyll
Creek and reported progress.

"We'll slip our moorings on Saturday," declared Trevorrick. "She's
practically ready. We took in the last few tons of oil this morning.
Men are full of beans and slogging in like buck niggers. Pengelly,
old son, it's going to be simply IT and no mistake."

In this optimistic state of mind, Trevorrick perched himself on the
edge of a desk and lit a cigarette. From where he sat he could
command two views: one over the creek on which the _Alerte_ rode
sedately at her moorings; the other along the narrow drive leading
to the one and only entrance to the works from the landward side.
Half-way down the drive lay a lorry laden with broken metal. It had
been there for the last month--by design--to prevent would-be
dealers and other callers from driving straight up to the office.

Suddenly Trevorrick rapped out an oath.

Pengelly started to his feet; not because his partner was not
addicted to strong language, but because the vehemence of the
other's spontaneous delivery, following a phrase of
self-satisfaction, warned him that something unusual had occurred.

"That fool!" hissed Trevorrick.

Pengelly hurried to the window. A car had stopped by the obstructing
lorry, and from it walked a man whom Pengelly instantly recognised
as Chamfer.

The Admiralty inspector had arrived three weeks before he was due.

"Confound the fellow!" ejaculated Pengelly. "What's to be done now?"

The spasm of rage evident in Trevorrick's face had passed. He was
smiling grimly.

"Make yourself scarce," he ordered. "I'll deal with him."

Pengelly knew that tone. He went.

"Stand by when I call you," called out his partner.

Left alone, Trevorrick preened himself and stood up to wait the
uninvited visitor.

Briskly the little man came into the office. The two shook
hands--Trevorrick cool and collected, towering a good seven inches
over the self-important little Chamfer. A hawk confronting a
cock-sparrow would have been an apt simile.

"This is an unexpected visit, Mr. Trevorrick," began the inspector.
"We officials like to have our little jokes, eh, what? Take you on
the hop, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Not my fault, though. Another Admiralty
minute--confound 'em. I've got to send in a report upon the
condition of R 81's Diesel engines. If disposed of, I must have the
name and address of the purchaser."

Trevorrick realised that he was in a fix. He could neither produce
the machinery (unless he gave the show away by taking Chamfer on
board the _Alerte_) nor could he offer his sales book for inspection,
since there was no record of the engines being sold.

"Rather unusual, isn't it?" he remarked, playing for time. Already a
scheme was hatching in his ready brain. "We've bought R 81, lock,
stock and barrel."

"But you must bear in mind that the Admiralty has an undisputed
right to supervise the breaking up of these craft until the clearing
certificate has been granted."

"The engines have been removed," announced Trevorrick. "One minute:
I'll turn up the name of the purchaser."

He went to a safe behind his desk. Mr. Chamfer went to the window
overlooking the creek.

"You haven't wasted much time over her," he remarked, noting as he
thought the meagre remains of R 81.

After that, things were decidedly hazy as far as the Admiralty
inspector was concerned. He was conscious of a powerful hand thrust
over his face and a sickly, smelly object pressed tightly over his
nose and mouth; a desperate attempt to breathe, a sort of wild
resentment at being thrown off his balance. Then, oblivion.

"Pengelly!" shouted his partner.

"Good heavens, man!" exclaimed Pengelly, when he entered the room
and stood aghast at Trevorrick's temerity; "what have you done now!
You've spoilt everything."

"Spoilt nothing, except the train of this fellow's thoughts,"
retorted Trevorrick coolly. "He's our first haul. Thirty thousand
you said--or was it fifty? We'll get a tidy slice of that, Pengelly.
We'll take him on board. It will interfere with previous
arrangements, I fear."

"How about the chauffeur? He'll be suspicious."

"Leave him to me," replied Trevorrick, picking up his hat. "Stand by
in case Chamfer wants to sit up and take nourishment. If he does,
give him some more of this."

He pointed to a bottle containing chloroform and ether.

Pengelly nodded. He was on the point of inquiring how his partner
could explain Chamfer's presence to the crew, but thought better of
it.

Presently, Trevorrick returned humming one of the latest music-hall
ditties.

"That's that," he remarked. "The fellow went off like a lamb.
Pitched him a yarn that his master was going down to Falmouth with
us in the launch, and that he was to pick him up by telephonic
orders to-morrow or possibly the day after at Penzance. Now,
Pengelly, sit down and write. Make out a medical certificate to the
effect that 'Mr. Jasper Chamfer is at present under my care,
suffering from '--what shall we say?--' from influenza.' Put any old
signature, with M.R.C.P. after it. We'll post it on to Devonport
Dockyard. They won't worry to look up the doctor's name in the
Medical Directory."

"How do we explain this to the men?" asked Pengelly, pointing to the
motionless figure on the coco-matting.

"Send up Barnard," was Trevorrick's only rejoinder.

Presently the bo'sun--formerly foreman--came hurrying up. His eyes
bulged as he caught sight of the unconscious representative of My
Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

"Do you know this man, Barnard?" demanded Trevorrick.

"Ay, ay, sir; 'tis th' inspector. Chamfer's his name."

"Then forget it," returned Trevorrick. "In future and for as long as
I think necessary his name's Jones. Got that?"

The bo'sun nodded.

"The skunk has let us down," continued the senior partner in
unruffled tones. "You'll remember he agreed to let us recondition R
81 as a salvage craft. After all our trouble, he went back on his
word because we would not comply with his demand for a quarter
share. He threatened to report the matter. The fool didn't realise
what he was up against. The question is, what's to be done with him?
Any suggestion, Barnard?"

"Take him with us, sir."

"Smart idea that, Barnard; very smart. Don't you think so, Pengelly?
We'll act on it. Cut off and tell the hands of what has occurred.
Warn them that we must at all costs weigh and proceed at tide-time."

"Ay, ay, sir; we'll have to fill the fresh-water tank and ship the
rest of the dry provisions. I'll tell off a party to swing back the
boom."

"And a couple of hands to carry this fellow aboard," added
Trevorrick.

"Now pack," he continued, addressing his partner. "We've none too
much time. In a way it's as well. It will afford a good excuse to go
up Channel instead of proceeding to the mythical wreck of the
phantom ship _Posidon_. We needn't worry ourselves about the
newly-christened Jones. The crew will deal with him."

"What are you going to do with him when we get him on board?" asked
Pengelly. "Ditch him?"

"Against my principles," laughed the other. "'Sides, there's money
to be made out of him. You wait."

Throughout the rest of the day the work of preparation proceeded.
Amongst other things the wireless aerial was sent aloft. The
installation was the original set belonging to R 81, but for good
reasons Trevorrick cut out the transmission gear. Communication by
wireless was apt to be a two-edged sword. By its use the position of
the pirate ship _Alerte_ might be located to within a mile. Receiving
was a different matter. It would enable the _Alerte_ to gain valuable
information regarding the presence of shipping in her vicinity.

Jasper Chamfer was soon carried off to the ship. Trevorrick's
invention of his cupidity and treachery was only too successful. At
the thought that the enterprise which was to make them rich was in
jeopardy through the action of the double-dealing Admiralty
official, the crew were ready to go to any length to muzzle him most
effectually.

At eight o'clock on a rising tide, and with the seven-day-old moon
well down in the west, the _Alerte_ slipped her moorings.



CHAPTER IV

THE FIRST HAUL


IN spite of her premature departure, the _Alerte_ was well found for
her work. Everything that Trevorrick and Pengelly could provide had
been placed on board, or had been arranged for at the earliest
possible opportunity. Yet Trevorrick smiled grimly when he reflected
that here was a modern pirate vessel proceeding to sea absolutely
unarmed with the exception of a service revolver and fifty rounds of
ammunition.

Pengelly, whose acquaintance with Falmouth Harbour and the river Fal
was extensive, conned the ship from the bows, transmitting his
orders to the quartermaster at the above-water steering apparatus.
Trevorrick, in peaked cap, bridge coat and rubber boots, tramped up
and down the temporary structure amidships. He was feeling rather
anxious, not on account of his recently adopted profession, but as
to whether the _Alerte_ would clear St. Anthony Point without either
grounding or being challenged by the Falmouth Customs officials. He
was one of those devil-may-care fellows who never hesitate to take
risks and face the consequences provided they have had a run for
their money. Ignominious capture at this early stage of the
proceedings would be the limit of bitter disappointment.

Slowly the _Alerte_ smelt her way down the intricate channel of
Polkyll Creek. Once her rounded bilge scraped the mud, but without
losing way she dragged over the slippery obstruction. Ahead lay the
dark, tree-clad hills of the right bank of the Fal.

"Hard-a-starboard!" shouted Pengelly, supplementing these
instructions by ordering the port engine to "go astern."

Even then, under the opposing action of the twin propellers the
_Alerte_ described a fairly wide turning circle. It was only by a
hand's-breadth that she avoided running her nose against the
opposite bank.

"Easy ahead both!" bawled the navigating officer.

The dense wooded ground echoed and re-echoed to the explosions of
the supposedly muffled exhausts. If this noise continued, Trevorrick
realised that all attempt to disguise the means of propulsion of the
_Alerte_ was at an end. As far as he could judge, the distinctive
sounds would be audible from Green Bank to St. Mawes.

Gradually the river opened out. Mylor Creek bore broad on the
starboard beam. Now unchecked by the lofty and narrow banks the
noise of the exhausts sensibly diminished, while the rising breeze,
hitherto masked by the trees, served still further to stifle the
oral evidence of the presence of the mysterious craft.

Then, like a galaxy of stars, the lights of the shipping and the
town of Falmouth opened out. For the next three miles would be the
critical part of the run. At any moment the tricoloured lamp of one
of the Customs' launches might be seen bearing down upon the
outgoing "tramp."

"Lugo Buoy on the port bow, sir!"

Now the gauntlet was all but run. Ahead loomed the rugged outlines
of St. Anthony and Pendennis, with the narrow channel between them,
still further contracted by the dangerous Black Rock.

"Ahoy! What ship is that?" hailed a voice out of the darkness.
Unseen and unheard, a motor launch had swept alongside the pirate
vessel's port quarter.

"_Alerte_ of London!" shouted Trevorrick.

"Cargo?"

"Light."

"Where are you bound?"

"Truro for Plymouth."

"All right. Heave us a line. I'll see your papers."

"Ay, ay," replied Trevorrick.

His ready brain was working. If things came to the worst, the
Customs' launch could be stove in by the simple expedient of
dropping a pig of iron into her. He might even take the crew
prisoners; but, he reflected, there was no likelihood of obtaining a
ransom for _them_. They would merely be useless mouths to feed.

"Ease down!" bawled the imperious voice.

"Ay, ay," responded Trevorrick, but made no move towards putting the
order into execution.

"Stand-by!" he bawled, brandishing a coil of rope.

The bowman of the launch caught the flake of the coil and took a
turn. Directly the rope tautened, Trevorrick cut it. The launch
dropped astern, until under extra throttle she again ran alongside.

It was a gain of a couple of minutes. By this time the _Alerte_ was
lifting to the fairly heavy rollers coming in from the English
Channel. With her additional top-hamper she was rolling pretty
heavily.

But by this time the Customs' boatmen had thought better of it.
Boarding an outward-bound vessel was not such an imperative duty as
examining one "come foreign." It wasn't worth the risk of having
their boat stove-in and finding themselves in the ditch on a cold
November night. A breaking sea sweeping clean over the canopy
decided the question.

Without a word, the motor-launch's helm was put hard over. Listing
dangerously, she flung about and disappeared into the darkness.

Thoughtfully, Trevorrick put a stopper round a piece of pig-iron
lying in the scuppers.

St. Anthony Light blinked knowingly away on the _Alerte's_ port
quarter.

"Well?" inquired Pengelly, stamping aft. He had put Marchant on duty
in the eyes of the ship, since there was now plenty of sea-room.

"We'll submerge off Helford," decided Trevorrick. "Wind's off the
land. It'll give the crew a chance to exercise. Get the hands to
stand by with the mast-lowering tackles."

Twenty minutes later the _Alerte_, with masts and funnel lowered,
slowed down a couple of miles due east of Mawnan Chair. A cast of
the lead gave sufficient depth.

"Hands to diving stations!" roared Trevorrick, his words recalling
incidents of long-past days when under better auspices he had held
command of a submarine flying the white ensign.

Quickly the crew disappeared below. Giving a final glance round,
Trevorrick followed Pengelly through the hatchway, which closed
after them with a metallic clang.

The throb of the Diesel engines ceased. The silence was profound,
broken only by the top of the wavelets against the outer plating of
the hull.

The electric lights gleamed upon the grave faces of the crew. With
two exceptions they were new to submarine work. They had excuse to
feel jumpy, but the sight of their cool and composed skipper gave
them a certain amount of confidence.

A gurgling noise announced that the buoyancy tanks were being
flooded. Slowly the disc of the depth indicator began to move. Once
it started it never faltered until it stopped at eleven fathoms.

The _Alerte_ was resting on the bed of Falmouth Bay.

"All shipshape and Bristol fashion, my lads!" exclaimed Trevorrick,
turning away from the control station and drawing off his leather
gauntlets. "No anchor watch to keep. We're as snug as fleas in a
rug."

The men trooped for'ard for supper. Trevorrick and Pengelly retired
to the diminutive wardroom amidships, where a repast was already
spread upon the teak swing-table.

"To-morrow," remarked Trevorrick, in the course of the meal,
"To-morrow, Tom Trevorrick ceases to exist as such. Henceforward I
am Captain Cain--'every man's hand against mine,' you know."

"Then you're letting the hands know early?"

Trevorrick nodded.

"And what am I, then?" continued Pengelly. "Captain what?"

Trevorrick laid down his knife and fork and looked fixedly at his
companion.

"Captain Nothing," he replied. "There won't be two captains aboard
this hooker. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it."

"But we're on equal terms?"

"From a financial point of view, yes," agreed Trevorrick. "But mark
you, I'm in sole command. There's no getting away from that: not an
earthly. You, Pengelly, are second in command; to be consulted as
and when I think fit. You are to carry out my orders
unquestioningly. Have you got that? Good; then don't forget it."

Then, having delivered his ultimatum, Trevorrick's mood changed. He
went on with his interrupted repast, chatting on topics that had no
bearing upon the subject of the great enterprise.

Presently he inquired casually:

"Has Chamfer recovered his senses yet?"

Pengelly shook his head.

"I haven't given him a thought," he replied.

The captain stretched out his hand and pressed a push. For'ard a
bell tinkled shrilly. One of the crew, tapping upon the door,
entered.

"See if Jones is stirring," ordered Trevorrick, glancing at the
clock on the bulkhead, which showed that it was twenty minutes past
one in the morning. "If he is, bring him along."

In less than a couple of minutes the man returned, followed by the
luckless Jasper Chamfer. The Admiralty inspector looked and probably
felt an utter wreck. The after-effects of the anaesthetic, coupled
with the confined atmosphere of his cell, would have capsized many a
man of tougher fibre.

"Stand there," ordered Trevorrick curtly, at the same time motioning
to the seaman to make himself scarce. "Unaccustomed surroundings,
eh?"

"Where am I?" inquired Chamfer tremulously.

"As near as I can say, you're between ten and eleven fathoms beneath
the surface of Falmouth Bay," announced his captor grimly. "But I
haven't brought you here to ask me questions. I want information
from you and--I'm--going--to--get--it."

He paused to let his words sink in.

"You poked your nose into our affairs. I'm going to probe into
yours," continued Trevorrick.

"It was my duty."

"That's your affair. Now, tell me. I understand you're worth about
thirty thousand pounds. Is that so? Well, I won't inquire, I'll
assume. They say 'silence means consent.' That thirty thousand is an
encumbrance. Already you're self-supporting, drawing a fat salary
and doing precious little to earn it--doing it mightily badly, I
might add. You'll have to disgorge: some of it, at least. How is
that sum invested?"

Chamfer shook his head.

"I won't tell you," he replied, with a faint show of spirit, which
his quivering form belied.

"Disobliging blighter," commented the captain. "Very well, then.
There's nothing more to be said at present. You'll go back to your
cell. Tomorrow you will look upon the sun for the last time."
Without giving the Admiralty official another look, Trevorrick
touched the bell.

"Remove Jones," he ordered.

"By Jove, man!" ejaculated Pengelly, after Chamfer had been taken
away; "he would have told. I could see it on his face."

"I didn't look," was the unconcerned response. "To-morrow he'll be
as docile as a dove. And while I'm about it," he added, "in future
you will drop that tone of familiarity you've been in the habit of
using. Remember, as your captain I am entitled to the word 'sir.'...
You'd better turn in now, Pengelly."

Pengelly got up and went out without a word. The door had hardly
closed when the captain recalled him.

"Good-night, Pengelly."

"Good-night, sir!"

"Nothing like putting it across the prevaricating blighter,"
soliloquised Trevorrick. "Without proper respect all discipline goes
by the board."

Pengelly, in his cabin, was indulging in different views.

"If the swine thinks he's going to ride the high horse with me, he's
mistaken," he muttered. "I'll do him properly when I get the
chance."

The night passed uneventfully. At four bells the hands were roused
and breakfast served out, every one being given a liberal tot of
rum. The meal over and the "traps" cleared away and the mess-deck
being cleaned up (Trevorrick was "dead nuts" on routine), the men
were mustered in the fore-compartment that previously served as the
bow torpedo-room and air-flask chamber. To them came Trevorrick,
rigged out in pea-jacket, gold braided cap, muffler, flannel
trousers, and sea-boots. At his right hip was a holster, the flap of
which was unfastened to display the butt of a revolver.

"Men!" he began. "Circumstances are against us; luck isn't! That
swine of an Admiralty inspector has to be held responsible. He has
'blown the gaff.' Taking advantage of the confidence I placed in
him, he has betrayed the secret of the _Posidon's_ cargo to the
Admiralty. I understand a dockyard lighter with a diving party is
already over the position of the ingots. That being so, our original
plans are a wash-out. But little difficulties of that description,
annoying though they be, don't daunt me. Since Jones has caused the
trouble, Jones must pay.

"I'm going to take strong measures. I haven't the faintest doubt
that they will attain the desired end. To be brief, I intend to
squeeze him to the extent of £20,000. Of that sum, Mr. Pengelly and
myself each take £5,000. The remainder--£10,000--will be divided
between the hands in proportion to the wages you were receiving
while in the employ of Trevorrick, Pengelly, and Co. I have not yet
worked out each man's share, but on a rough calculation it varies
between £300 and £400 apiece, which is considerably in excess of the
sum originally offered in connection with the proposed, but now
abandoned, salvage operations. Later on, I have other attractive
propositions to bring forward, but for the present I'll say no
more."

It might be owing to the strong spirit, it might be the vision of
sudden and easily gotten wealth. Be that as it may, the captain's
speech roused the men to boisterous enthusiasm.

Trevorrick left them to discuss matters.

"I said they'd eat out of my hand, Pengelly," he remarked. "One word
from me and they'd cut the throats of the first crew of foreigners
we came across. Not that that is my intention," he added.

As dawn was breaking, the _Alerte_ was brought to the surface. Masts
and funnel were set up, the motors started ahead at a modest five
knots, a course was shaped to the S.S.E. which would take her well
clear of the Cornish coast.

When twenty miles out in the Channel, Trevorrick swept the horizon
with his binoculars. Save for a large oil tanker well away beyond
the Lizard, there was nothing in sight--which was precisely what
Trevorrick had wanted.

"Clear lower deck!" was the order.

Up tumbled the hands. Under the captain's directions a plank was
brought out and placed with his heel resting on the deck amidships,
and its outer end projecting five feet beyond the low bulwarks.

"Fall in on your respective sides--port and starboard watch,"
shouted Trevorrick. "When Jones comes on deck howl at him. Put the
wind up him for all you're worth. I'm not going to carry my threat
into execution. It won't be necessary, and he's not worth it....
Bring up the prisoner."

A combined yell like the howling of a pack of wolves greeted the
trembling Jasper Chamfer. With quivering steps he was led to the
foot of the slightly inclined plank. Here his eyes were bandaged and
his arms lashed behind his back.

Trevorrick held up his hand for silence.

The uproar ceased immediately.

"Now," began the captain in clear, measured tones, addressing the
captive. "I will state our terms whereby you may gain your life and,
under certain restrictions, your liberty. If within thirty seconds
from the termination of my proposal you still refuse a perfectly
reasonable demand--there's the plank. You will sign an order on your
bankers, authorising them to pay the person named in your letter of
advice the sum of £20,000. Having done that, you will be placed on
board a vessel bound foreign, you giving the undertaking that you
will not reveal your identity nor attempt to cancel your bond within
the period of four months. Remember that, if you do, your life will
not be worth a red cent. We belong to a powerful and widely
scattered society, having agents in the principal ports all over the
world. Conform to the conditions and you will be free to return at
the expiration of the time limit mentioned. Refuse and your fate
rests with you."

In dead silence, Trevorrick pulled out his watch. The blindfolded
man could hear the deliberate ticking of the timepiece.

"Ten seconds," announced Trevorrick.... "Twenty seconds, ten more to
go. Stand by, you men...."

"I agree!" almost shrieked the tortured man, and with a groan he
pitched forward. Trevorrick caught him as he fell.

"The twenty thousand's ours, lads!" he announced. "Pipe down. Take
him below."

The assembled crew broke ranks and were about to disperse, when
Trevorrick swung round on his heel.

"Stand fast!" he ordered.

Months, nay years, cannot destroy the deeply-rooted sense of
discipline of the ex-naval man. Smartly the ununiformed crew pulled
themselves together and waited immovable, while two of their number
"struck" the unconscious Chamfer down below, lowering him through
what was originally the fore torpedo hatch.

"Men!" exclaimed Trevorrick. "We may just as well understand each
other. Already you have seen how I deal with those who thwart my
purpose, especially when that purpose is to the advantage of those
in my employ and under my command. You all know, only too well, what
it is to be up against Fate. So do I. Since the chance of earning an
honest living is denied us--honest according to the ideas of a
certain class of society that has never to study the question of
existence from our standpoint--there remains another alternative.
You know the saying: 'Heaven helps those who help themselves.' I
mean to act upon that, on the firm belief that Providence will see
us through. We've made an excellent start. You will naturally feel
inclined to ask: How shall we help ourselves on future occasions?
Already we have broken the law and incurred severe penalties by
kidnapping a citizen of the realm and a government official to boot.
All of us, remember."

He paused in order to let his words sink in.

"May as well be 'ung for a sheep as a lamb, sir," exclaimed one of
the men.

Several of his companions uttered expressions of assent.

"That's the spirit," said Trevorrick. "Exactly what I expected.
Well, my lads, it's my intention to arm this old hooker. Already
arrangements have been completed to that end. Then we'll stop the
first likely Dago or Hun ship we fall in with and see what we can do
to ease their pockets. Mind you, I'm not going to run needless
risks. I have your interests as well as my own at stake. It's going
to be a short cruise but a busy one. When we pay off there will be
no doubt that each of you will have sufficient money to buy a
comfortable pub and live the rest of your lives in simple luxury and
ease. Think what you can do with, say, three thousand of the best to
play with--probably more. Now then: any questions?"

Questions came; slowly at first, then rapidly. Trevorrick dealt with
each at length, replying so suavely and convincingly, that his
listeners were metaphorically lifted off their feet. They were not
inquiries respecting the proposed methods by which they were to
acquire wealth, nor did the questioners seem to trouble themselves
over the possible consequences of their lawlessness. The subject
that weighed most heavily on their minds was: how were they to
obtain guarantees that their shares would actually reach them?

"Exactly the sort of question I should expect from an intelligent
body of men," replied Trevorrick. "Naturally you look ahead. Your
horizon isn't six inches from your eyes. But you can see perfectly
well that it would be impracticable to run ashore a cargo of booty
valued, say, at fifteen thousand and divide it up like a sirloin of
beef. We have to employ an agent--a middleman. One is already
engaged--a thoroughly trustworthy Penzance man--and you know the
word of a Penzance man is his bond. He will take off our loot and
dispose of it. The profits of each transaction will be immediately
apportioned. Each of you can either have his share posted to any
address he cares to give, or it can remain with the agent till
called for in person. In the case of cash and jewellery, we will, if
thought necessary, make the division on board."

"S'posin' some of us loses the number of our mess, sir?" asked a
burly ex-stoker, "wot 'appens?"

"You lose it, I suppose," replied Trevorrick. "We will all do sooner
or later. It will be all the same a hundred years hence."

Several of the hands laughed at their skipper's feeble joke.

"But I know what you mean," he continued. "In bygone days, pirates
used to regard the death of one of their number as a sort of
windfall. It enhanced the value of the survivors' shares. I have no
intention of following that precedent. Every member of the crew can
nominate a next-of-kin in the event of his losing his life--which I
am anxious to avoid."

"You mentioned pirates, sir," remarked the bo'sun. "I take it we're
to sail under the skull and crossbones?"

There was an ominous silence. The sinister significance of the term
had struck home.

"Now you come to mention it, Mr. Barnard, I really think we are,"
replied Trevorrick lightly. "But there's still time if there's any
white-livered blighter who wants to back out. Now, my lads!" he
continued in ringing tones, "all those who do not wish to carry on
on my terms--two paces step forward--March!"

Not a man moved as directed. Two or three shuffled and lowered their
eyes under the stern gaze of the self-declared pirate captain.
Possibly they would have taken advantage of the offer had it not
been that the fear of ridicule was stronger than their inclination
to keep within the law.

Trevorrick's smile had given place to a look of grim determination.
His shaggy eyebrows met in a continuous straight line; his
aggressive jaw shot forward.

"That's settled, my lads!" he exclaimed. "Now, there's something
more to remember. I am the captain of this craft. My orders you'll
carry out smartly, at the double, and unquestioningly. If they're
not, there'll be trouble--but there won't. In the future, you--and
others--will know me as Captain Cain. Mr. Pengelly here is second in
command; Mr. Barnard is bos'un, and Mr. Marchant, gunner. These,
under me, are your officers and must be treated with respect due to
their rank. I insist upon perfect discipline, which alone will
enable us to win through. If any man has a grievance against
another, there must be no quarrelling. He must report the
circumstances to me and abide by my decision.... Mr. Marchant,
before the men are piped down, serve out a tot of rum apiece and
drink success to the _Alerte_ and all who sail in her."

For the last hour the motors had been stopped. There was no
immediate hurry to reach the rendezvous, and Captain Cain was too
prudent a man to use up oil in aimlessly cruising up-Channel. Unless
another craft came within sight the _Alerte_ could drift; but the
pirate skipper realised the risk of his vessel wallowing in the long
swell without carrying way. That would be in itself sufficient to
excite the curiosity of any passing shipping.

Presently, after a prolonged examination of the horizon, Captain
Cain went below to his cabin, leaving Pengelly in charge of the
deck. For certain reasons, the skipper did not desire the presence
of his lieutenant.

He touched the bell and, on a man entering to inquire his pleasure,
ordered Jones to be brought to him.

The wretched Jasper Chamfer, looking ill and horribly scared, was
brusquely shown into Captain Cain's cabin.

"Good-morning," was the captain's greeting, as genial as if he were
dealing with Chamfer in his capacity of Admiralty inspector.

"Good-morning," replied Chamfer, almost automatically. He was too
bewildered to grasp the significance of his captor's irony.

"Sorry to trouble you," continued Captain Cain, "but there are a few
formalities to be observed in the carrying out of our agreement.
That twenty thousand: is it in shares?"

"Government Four per Cents., redeemable in 1931," replied Chamfer.
"Also Six per Cents. Royal Mail."

"Deposited with whom?"

"My bankers, Trevannion Brothers, Plymouth."

"Manager a friend of yours?"

"I know him fairly well."

"Good," commented Captain Cain. "Here are paper, pen and ink. First
write out an order transferring twenty thousand pounds to my
account--Thomas Trevorrick--payable to my bankers, Messrs.
Grabaul, Yewgett and Co., Truro."

For some minutes there was silence in the cabin. Somewhere for'ard a
gramophone was blaring out that popular ditty: "Then he knew he'd
parted."

Without a word, Chamfer handed over the order. The captain read it
carefully.

"Ever heard that story about the Harley Street specialist, Mr.
Chamfer?" he inquired. "Two of the brigands met in Oxford Street.
Said one, 'How much did you charge So-and-so for that operation?'
'Seventy-eight pounds fifteen and sixpence,' was the reply.
'Extraordinary amount,' commented the other. 'Whatever made you fix
that sum?' The specialist laughed. 'I made him show me his
pass-book,' he replied. Well, I'm not asking to see yours, Mr.
Chamfer, nor am I lifting all your little pile. At the same time, I
want to make sure of what I have got, so just write a friendly
little covering letter to the manager of your bank."

"What shall I say?" asked the victim wearily.

"Gracious, man! Haven't you any imagination? Perhaps that
qualification isn't required of Admiralty Civil Servants. Tell him
you've been unexpectedly ordered a sea voyage by your medical
adviser, and that before you go you must make certain adjustments in
your finances.... That's right. I presume you won't require a
receipt?"

"What are you going to do with me now?" asked Jasper Chamfer,
tremulously.

"What I told you before," replied the pirate, with a grin. "A voyage
to Jamaica or Pernambuco will do you a world of good. Broaden your
outlook on life, Chamfer; enlarge your mental horizon. But,
remember, for the next four months your name's Jones. One hint to
the contrary and, by Jove! your number's up. 'Nough said!"

Placing both documents in his pocket-book, Captain Cain turned to go
on deck.

"You can amuse yourself as you like," he remarked. "You've got the
run of the ship. There's nothing to be afraid of provided you hold
your tongue."

It was blowing freshly from the west'ard when Captain Cain rejoined
his lieutenant. The _Alerte_, with a trysail bent to keep her steady,
was steering S.E. by S. making about one knot. Well away to the
east'ard a beaten-down trail of smoke betokened the presence of some
sort of steam vessel. To the south'ard half a dozen tanned sails
indicated the position of one of the Cornish fishing fleets making
for home.

"Got it, sir?" inquired Pengelly. By this time the "sir" came with
no noticeable hesitation, though the utterance caused the man to
curse inwardly every time he had occasion to address his
self-constituted superior officer.

"Yes," replied Captain Cain. "He parted like a lamb. I've an order
for the twenty thousand. I'll have that transferred to Saldanha at
Bahia. Useful man, Saldanha."

Late that afternoon, and after the sun had set beneath the misty
waters of the English Channel, the _Alerte_, with smoke pouring from
her funnel, rolled and lurched past Rame Head, rounded Penlee Point
and brought up in the sheltered waters of Cawsand Bay. There was no
attempt made to conceal her presence. An anchor-lamp shone brightly
from the forestay. To all appearances she was just an ordinary tramp
that had brought up outside Plymouth Breakwater while awaiting
orders, and thus saving harbour dues which she would have incurred
had she entered the Catwater.

"I'm going on the beach, Mr. Pengelly," announced the skipper, loud
enough for the watch on deck to hear. "Send a boat for me at
ten-thirty."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the second in command, following up by
ordering one of the boats to be lowered.

Ten minutes later Captain Cain, in shore-going rig, landed on the
sandy beach at Cawsand. A few fishermen were lolling about in the
narrow streets of the village. A member of the Coast Preventive
Force was talking to the village policeman. Both glanced at the
stranger, merely by force of habit. It was not unusual for people to
come ashore at Cawsand.

"Can you tell me the nearest way to Plymouth?" asked Captain Cain of
the modern substitute of the old coastguardman, not because he did
not know, but to give the man an opportunity of questioning him.

Captain Cain was a good walker. In quick time he covered the
distance between Cawsand and Cremyll, crossed by means of the ferry
to Devonport, and hastened along Union Street. Here he posted
two missives: one in Chamfer's handwriting, addressed to the local
bank (that would bear the Plymouth postmark, which was no small
advantage); the other to his own bankers, instructing them that on
the receipt of securities to the extent of twenty thousand pounds
they were to sell out and transfer the proceeds to the firm of Señor
Paquita, Calle Rancagua, Copuapo, Chile.

"Guess that fool Pengelly would look a bit sick if he knew,"
soliloquised Captain Cain, as he turned to retrace his steps. "It's
all in the game. If I don't look after Number One, who else will?"



CHAPTER V

THE RENDEZVOUS


"SAIL on the starboard bow, sir!"

Captain Cain, binoculars slung round his neck, clambered up the
almost vertical teak ladder to the temporary bridge.

It was in the forenoon watch--seven bells, to be exact--of the day
following the pirate captain's visit to Devonport. The _Alerte_,
ploughing along at an easy five knots, was abeam and nearly five
miles to the south'ard of Bolt Tail. All that iron-bound coast
betwixt Bolt Head and Bolt Tail stood out clearly in the sunlight.
To the west'ard the lower lying ground bordering Bigbury Bay was
invisible, while to the east'ard the Start was fading into the grey
mists that sweep down when the cold Dartmoor air mingles with the
warm atmosphere of the English Channel.

The mist was certainly spreading. Unless Captain Cain was very much
mistaken, soon the granite cliffs of Devon would be blotted out by
the watery vapour.

"I'll risk it," he decided.

At an aggregate speed of eleven knots, the _Alerte_ and the strange
vessel rapidly closed. Soon it was apparent that the latter was a
collier; more, she was well down to Plimsoll mark. From the data
Captain Cain drew the following conclusions:

She was bound foreign. Evidently she hailed from the Tyne, and since
the Welsh coalfields supply the iron furnaces around Swansea with as
much coal as they want, it was as futile for a Tyneside collier to
carry coals to the Bristol Channel ports as it would be for her to
carry that commodity to Newcastle. She was standing too far out to
be shaping a course for Plymouth, while her size and draught
indicated that she was not an ordinary coasting collier.

"Make our number, Mr. Barnard!" sung out the skipper.

The "number," consisting of four flags of the International Code,
was already toggled ready for instant use. The first letter was H,
but the combination did not appear in the pages of the list of
shipping. Captain Cain had seen to that.

The four-flag hoist had hardly reached the halyard block when the
stranger replied with her number.

"KJVT, sir," sung out Mr. Barnard.

Reference to the list revealed the stranger to be the s.s. _Pickfast_
of Newcastle, a subsequent signal, AXSR, indicating that she was
bound for Kingston, Jamaica.

The _Alerte's_ next move was to hoist her Code flag over the letter
"H," signifying "Bring-to, I have something important to
communicate." To which the collier replied by the single flag "C"
indicating "Yes," and at the same time altering helm and stopping
her engines.

"Lower away a boat, Mr. Pengelly," ordered Captain Cain. "A couple
of hands below there and bring Jones on deck."

In two minutes the boat, steered by Pengelly and with Jasper Chamfer
in the stern-sheets, was bounding towards the collier _Pickfast_.

Without a word, the grim Northumbrian mate of the _Pickfast_ caught
the heaved bowline and took a turn. As the _Alerte's_ boat swung
alongside, a rope ladder was lowered to the accompaniment of an
invitation to come aboard.

The _Pickfast's_ Old Man had descended from the bridge and was
awaiting his visitors. He was a short, thick-set Tynesider, with
huge shoulders and bowed legs, a shrewd face and a taciturn manner.

"Eh, lad!" he exclaimed, addressing Pengelly. "What dost want?"

"A passage to Jamaica for this man," replied Pengelly, feeling that
it would be a waste of time to beat about the bush. "We'll pay you
fifty pounds in cash."

The Old Man threw a quick comprehensive glance over the little
Admiralty inspector. He noted also that the would-be passenger was
without luggage.

"I'll ha' nowt to do wi' him," he declared bluntly. "I've no call
for passengers myseen. Police after him?"

"No, no," Pengelly hastened to reassure him. "All aboveboard,
Captain. He came aboard us in a hurry, I'll admit. We were bound for
New Orleans, but had our orders countermanded at Falmouth. Jones is
his name; ordered a long sea voyage for the benefit of his health.
Come on, Captain. Fifty pounds easily earned."

"Coals an' bananas; them's my freight," remarked the skipper of the
_Pickfast_. "Passengers aren't in my line. Still, it's easy money if
he'll take things as he finds 'em. All right, Mr. Jones, I'll take
you."

And with the air of a man who has conferred a great personal favour,
the captain pocketed the notes and waddled in the direction of the
bridge. With equal alacrity Mr. Pengelly clambered over the side and
dropped into the waiting boat. The painter was cast off and the
collier's propeller began to churn the water.

Mr. Jasper Chamfer had started on his involuntary voyage to Jamaica.

Eight hours later the _Alerte_ dropped anchor in Studland Bay. Here
she was not likely to be disturbed, nor would her presence excite
much attention. Since she flew no signal for a pilot, the pilots for
Poole Harbour let her severely alone. A vessel might lie there for a
week without attracting official notice, since that anchorage is
frequently made use of by craft bound down Channel. Provided the
wind kept between sou'sou'-west and north it was a secure berth, but
should the wind fly round to any other point a heavy swell soon
rolls into the bay, making it a matter of urgency for the vessels
lying there to up-anchor and proceed.

The anchorage suited Captain Cain admirably. He was within a couple
of hours' run of his rendezvous with the _Fairy_, and by this time
Captain Silas Porthoustoc ought to be on his way down-Channel with
his cargo of arms and ammunition. Until the _Alerte_ received the
_Fairy's_ Belgian cargo little could be done to augment the pirates'
treasury.

At length the evening fixed for the meeting of the pirate ship and
her tender arrived. Seven in the evening, with neither moon nor
stars to mitigate the darkness of a November night, the _Alerte_
weighed, gave Old Harry Rocks a wide berth and shaped a course to
carry her well clear of St. Alban's Head.

At ten o'clock she was at the rendezvous. The prearranged signals
were made, but no reassuring reply blinked through the darkness.

Midnight came and went. At 4 a.m. the Middle watch was relieved, but
still no sign of the motorlugger _Fairy_.

"Old Porthoustoc's let us down, Pengelly," declared Captain Cain
petulantly. "He's made a lash-up of things. Shouldn't be surprised
to hear that he's under arrest either at Dover or Dunkirk."

"Not he, sir," replied Pengelly confidently.

Both men had remained on deck all night, in their eagerness to
welcome the _Fairy_ alongside. Every quarter of an hour the flashing
signals from the _Alerte_ stabbed the darkness, but not the suspicion
of an answer was received.

There was practically no wind. It was a belated St. Martin's summer.
The air was warm and moist, with patches of haze sufficient to
obscure the rays of Anvil Point light a bare twelve miles off.

"Flashing light on our starboard quarter, sir!" shouted one of the
hands.

"That's her, then," declared Pengelly.

"What's the silly fool doing so far to the west'ard?" demanded
Captain Cain, whose temper had not been improved by his long vigil.
"Port twelve, Quartermaster. Watch for the next flash and keep her
on that."

A quarter of an hour later the two vessels met, the _Fairy_ with her
canvas stowed and her motor coughing noisily.

"Sorry we'm late," said Silas apologetically, as the _Fairy_ was made
fast alongside her big consort. "Wind fell light up-along. Motor
jibbed sudden-like. Never knowed 'un to play the fule afore. Tide
carried us well to loo'ard afore us could get un gwine agen."

"All right, I hope?" asked Captain Cain.

"Ay, an' why not?" rejoined Silas Porthoustoc, as if the question
were unnecessary, and that running a cargo of munitions was a mere
bagatelle. "I'll come aboard. She'll lie nicely there," he added,
jerking his thumb in the direction of the _Fairy_, which was grinding
softly against the fender-protected side of the _Alerte_.

Silas, who like many another of his fellow-fisherfolk would have
related anecdotes of his wife's sister's husband's cousin or other
remote connection, kept up a running fire of family history. Without
the slightest provocation, he would launch out details of relatives
whom one never knew, never wanted to know and in all probability
never did know. But when it came to what he had done he was almost
as mute as an oyster. There was precious little _Ego_ in Silas
Porthoustoc's _Cosmos_.

"What's the matter with your hand, Silas?" asked Pengelly, noticing
in the lamplight that the old man's left hand was encased in
bloodstained bandages.

"'Urt 'un," was the reply, surly and almost resentful, as if the
skipper of the _Fairy_ had been called upon to make a confession of
professional incompetence.

He did not think it necessary to add that the injury had been
sustained thirty-six hours previously, when, in a nasty lop off the
Nord Hinder, the precious cargo consigned to Captain Cain was in
danger of making a swift passage to the bed of the North Sea. Only
Silas Porthoustoc's prompt action in jamming the slipping sling had
prevented the disaster; but it was at the expense of a crushed hand
and a badly lacerated finger.

As soon as the _Fairy_ was secured alongside the _Alerte_, the latter's
foremast derricks were swung outboard with the necessary tackle
rove. There were cases of automatic pistols, each weapon concealed
in an air-tight tin and packed in tallow. The tins bore the name of
a well-known firm of tinned beef exporters and the cases were
entered in the manifest as containing pressed beef. Three thousand
rounds of small-arms ammunition followed, similarly disguised. Then
came a crate with a card nailed to it, describing its contents as a
sewing-machine. It was: "It sowed death broadcast"; for on the case
being broken open there was revealed a machine-gun, firing the same
calibre ammunition as that of the pistols, automatic in action and
air-cooled. This had been ordered as an afterthought. As that class
of article went it was cheap.

The mate and the boy of the lugger next set to work to shovel aside
a thick layer of coal in the _Fairy's_ hold. This done, they laid bare
what appeared to be the lugger's kelson, a long, roughhewn piece of
timber. Under this was passed wire slings. The eyes of the slings
were engaged in the hook of the lower block of the _Alerte's_
derrick-purchase.

"Handsomely now, my lads!" cautioned Captain Cain, to the man
manning the running part of the tackle. "Walk back with her--here
she comes."

Torn from its bed of coal the huge bunch of timber rose slowly. By
means of grips one end was dipped sufficiently to allow the
twenty-five feet of woodwork to clear the hatchway coamings. Higher
and higher it rose, the _Fairy_ listing acutely during the operation,
while even the _Alerte_ heeled under the strain on her masthead.

"At that!" shouted Captain Cain. "Swing her gently, lads!"

Inboard swung the derrick, its load swaying eight feet above the
deck in spite of the efforts of the hands at the grips.

"Ease away handsomely!" exclaimed the pirate captain. "Stand from
under!"

With a dull thud the baulk of timber was deposited upon the steel
deck of the _Alerte_. The slings were cast off, and while some of the
hands lowered and secured the derrick, others set to work seemingly
to dismember the twenty-four feet of rough pine.

It was an easy task. Snugly hidden between the slabs was the
much-wanted six-inch quick-firer. Its mounting followed, and was
immediately bolted down to the deck just abaft the rise of the
fo'c'sle.

"Carry on, Cap'n Porthoustoc," exclaimed Cain, after the necessary
exchange of banknotes had been effected. "Look out for us on the
1st, and we'll have a rare cargo for you. Chenal du Four at sunset.
It'll be slack water at nine."

"Very good, Cap'n," replied Silas, touching his grizzled forelock.
"Us'll be there."

The warps were cast off, the _Fairy's_ motor began to cough and
splutter, and ten minutes later the lugger was lost to sight in the
darkness.

But the night's work was far from being accomplished as far as the
_Alerte's_ crew were concerned. The six-inch quick-firer was mounted;
it had to be concealed from outside observation. To attempt to
screen the weapon from any one on deck would have been a senseless
task. The construction of the submarine prevented that. Even her
conning-tower stood out gaunt and unashamed when viewed from the
deck; but from another vessel that armoured structure seemed to be
merged into the 'midship superstructure and bridge.

A cutter, hitherto carried abaft the 'midship deckhouse, was
man-handled for'ard. Unlike the other boats, it was clench-built of
elm; but in order not to impede the _Alerte's_ diving capabilities,
the garboard strakes had been cut away. It was a simple though
lengthy task to saw through the timbers next the keel and cut
through breasthook and transome, with the result that the cutter was
longitudinally divided into two parts. Quick-release clips of
gun-metal were then fitted to keep the two portions into some
resemblance of a boat. The reunited parts were then placed keel
uppermost over the quick-firer, a tarpaulin being stretched over all
to hide the missing garboards.

Throughout the long night the hands toiled, Captain Cain giving
practical assistance besides directing operations. He worked his men
hard--he believed in it--but he never spared himself.

It wanted an hour to dawn when the task of making all snug was
completed. Dawn ought to reveal the _Alerte_ as a harmless tramp, her
powerful ordnance stowed away under the boat. But Captain Cain was
not satisfied.

"We'll submerge before we stand easy, lads," he shouted. "Eighteen
fathoms'll find bottom. Diving stations, all hands!"

Down sank the _Alerte_, the tell-tale débris of splinters, shavings,
an sawdust floating away as she submerged. She rested on the bottom
in a very faint tideway, certainly not more than one knot. The crew
piped to breakfast, completed the meal and expected a "stand easy."

They were disappointed. The _Alerte_ was to break surface before dawn,
lest the operation be seen by a passing vessel. Then and only then,
as she cruised towards the French coast, were the hard-worked men
allowed a brief spell of leisure.

"Anything in sight, Mr. Pengelly?" sang out the captain, as he
slithered over the weed-encumbered deck to the bridge-ladder.

The second in command was sweeping the horizon with his
night-glasses. It was pitch dark--the period of intense darkness
between the false and the true dawn.

"Nothing in sight, sir!" reported Pengelly.

The words were hardly out of his mouth--in fact, Captain Cain had
not time to telegraph "Easy ahead," when a loud voice, coming from
close alongside, hailed:

"Ship ahoy! Throw us a line!"



CHAPTER VI

THE LAST OF THE _IBEX_


"I MUST hand her over to her new owner before the end of the present
month, Gerald," declared Rollo Vyse, owner of the thirty-five-feet
motor-yacht _Ibex_, to his chum Gerald Broadmayne. "If the worst comes
to the worst, I must get professional assistance. You know what that
means. Never could stick a paid hand. Be a sport and bear a hand."

"When do you expect to be back?" inquired Broadmayne.

His chum felt this was a decidedly encouraging question,
notwithstanding the fact that the other had used the second person
plural instead of the first.

"Saturday evening, for an absolute cert," replied Vyse. "Glass is
steady, sea calm. We'd make Southampton hands down by Friday
morning, hand over the yacht and check the inventory, and catch the
first train home on the following day."

Gerald Broadmayne was a strapping fellow of six feet two inches. In
point of age he was "rising twenty-one." By profession, he was a
sub-lieutenant R.N., and having just completed a two years'
commission on the East Indian Station, was already beginning to be
"bored stiff" with his "little drop o' leaf," to quote the lower
deck vernacular for the sailor's equivalent for furlough.

Existence in Fowey, even with its mild climate, was apt to be a bit
tedious in November, after a prolonged spell under the tropical sun.
Yachting was his hobby, although circumstances prevented him from
having a small craft of his own. Almost without exception his pals
in Fowey had laid their yachts up, and there was not much fun
knocking about in the harbour or spending comfortless hours in the
Channel in an open or half-decked boat.

The exception was Rollo Vyse, a lad two years his junior, two inches
shorter than the Sub, but with a decided excess of girth. His arms
and legs were massive and muscular. In spite of his ponderous frame
he carried not an ounce of superfluous flesh. His big frame,
hardened by almost unlimited physical exercise, was destitute of
fat. He would sprint well and run a mile without undue physical
distress; swim like a South Sea Islander and dive like a duck. At
school he was a terror with the gloves on. Twice in succession he
was the champion athlete of the year of his school. Yet with all
these accomplishments, he was far from being brilliant in
educational subjects.

Fortunately, or unfortunately (that depended upon the future), Rollo
had little to worry about. It was not necessary for him to earn his
own living. He had an ample allowance, provided he kept within the
bounds of prudence--which he generally did. In due course, Rollo
Vyse would become head of a huge coal combine, when his sole
responsibility consisted in affixing his signature to the Annual
Report.

Nineteen fellows out of twenty so situated would have gone to the
dogs. Not so Rollo Vyse. A thorough sportsman, he had no use for
companions whose chief aim was to "sow their wild oats." He meant to
enjoy himself--to make the very best out of his youth--and he did.

His favourite pastime was yachting. He did not take it up as a
sport. Yacht racing did not appeal to him. It was the lure of the
sea that held him. The greatest of the few outstanding
disappointments of his early youth was his father's refusal to let
him go to sea, either in the Royal Navy through Dartmouth College,
or in the Mercantile Marine through that strictly-disciplined yet
withal happily-run training-ship, the _Conway_.

Vyse was a yachtsman of the modern school. He knew little about
cutters, yawls, and ketches. Seamanship in such he was ignorant of.
He never had to handle a craft under sail alone. He had never
experienced the thrills of a short thresh to wind'ard with a
weather-going tide.

His first craft was the _Ibex_, an out-and-out power boat. Thirty-five
feet over all, with a beam of six feet and a maximum draught of
three-feet-eight, the _Ibex_ was propelled with a pair of petrol
motors giving her a speed of about eleven knots.

Her accommodation consisted of a spacious fo'c'sle with two
"pipe-rail" cots; a saloon with settees on either side and a
swinging table on the centre line; abaft a small galley, separated
from the engine-room by a steel bulkhead with a sliding door that
was supposed to be water-tight. The engine-room was large in
proportion to the size of the boat, being nearly nine feet in
length, with a narrow, railed-off gangway between the twin motors.
Abaft the motor-room was a "sunk" deckhouse, containing the wheel
and the engine-room controls. Right aft a large open cockpit with a
short deck and coamings.

For nearly a twelvemonth the _Ibex_ was Rollo Vyse's pride and
delight. She was a good sea-boat, her engines had never once let her
owner down. "Vyse's luck" was almost proverbial in Fowey. If he said
he would return to harbour on a certain day, he always did so,
although on some occasions the Polruan fishermen shook their heads
as they climbed the hill and gazed towards the surf-swept Gribben.
"That there motyboat'll drown 'un sure as sure," they would declare;
but the sight of the _Ibex_ pounding the heavy seas as she passed the
rocky ledges around Punch's Cross, and entered the land-locked
harbour, compelled them to admit that for the present their cheerful
prognostications were somewhat adrift.

But into Rollo Vyse's Eden had arrived the serpent under the name of
one Jim Vardo--a good fellow and all that sort of thing, according
to Rollo's admission. Vardo without the _Spitfire_ was quite all
right. It was Vardo with the _Spitfire_ that upset Rollo.

Why? Simply because the _Spitfire_ did twelve and a half knots to the
_Ibex's_ eleven.

Vyse was not a racing man as far as marine motoring went, but when
the _Spitfire_ seemed to make a point of going almost everywhere the
_Ibex_ went, and overhauled her every time, there was a supercilious,
self-satisfied look upon Vardo's face that made even easy-going
Rollo Vyse squirm.

"Wait till I get him out in a stiff sou'wester," muttered Rollo.
"I'll knock spots off his old orange-box."

But that opportunity never came, for the simple reason that Vardo
hadn't the real love of the sea. He himself admitted that he was
cautious; Rollo with characteristic bluntness declared that Vardo
was "white-livered." At any rate, the _Spitfire_ never showed her nose
beyond the mouth of Ready Money Cove when there were white horses in
the Channel.

The fact that in smooth water the _Spitfire_ could show her heels to
the _Ibex_ decided the latter's fate. Vyse decided to sell her and
purchase another motor-cruiser, larger, more powerfully-engined and
capable of developing fifteen and a half knots. Then Jim Vardo's
loose-lipped, mealy-mouthed features wouldn't wear that fatuous
grin.

Accordingly, the _Ibex_ was sold to a Southampton yachtsman, subject
to delivery at that port; and now arose the problem how Vyse was to
get her round.

It was late in the year. His chums rather jibbed at the suggestion
that they should form a crew. Had it been Cowes week they would have
clamoured for the vacant berth; for although the _Ibex_ was arranged
as a single-hander, and Rollo often had taken her out alone, the
passage between Fowey and the Wight was rather too long for a
one-man show.

Rollo was getting jumpy. November was well advanced. No amateur help
was forthcoming. He was about to take the unwelcome step of engaging
a professional hand when a _deus ex machina_ in the person of
Sub-Lieutenant Gerald Broadmayne appeared upon the scene.

It did not take Broadmayne long to make up his mind. The ability to
make a quick decision on points that require unerring judgment is a
characteristic of the naval man who hopes to make a name for himself
in his profession.

"Right-o; I'll come," he replied. "When do you get under way?"

"In an hour's time," said Vyse promptly, lest too prolonged an
interval might afford his new shipmate an opportunity to change his
mind. "Provisions and petrol are on board. I'll have to lay in some
fresh tack, though. Heaps of bedding, too. All you'll want is your
kit."

"I'll be at Whitehouse Steps in half an hour," declared the Sub.
"Must slip off on my motorbike and tell my people that Little Gerry
is off on the high seas and pack up a few things."

"And I'll do the same," added Rollo; "although my governor's been
expecting to hear that I've actually cleared every day for the last
fortnight. You're a real pal, old man. Thanks awfully."

Prompt to time, the chums met at the prearranged spot. The Sub was
rigged out in white sweater, grey flannel "bags" and rubber shoes.
Across his shoulder was thrown a black pegamoid oilskin. A suit-case
containing clothes of sufficient respectability to enable him to
return by train lay at his feet.

Vyse appeared in a thick blue sweater, pilot coat and trousers, the
bottoms of the latter garment being rolled over a pair of
india-rubber sea-boots.

"Rest of my gear's already on board," he remarked as they descended
the steps to the dinghy. "We're going to have a topping run if this
weather holds. How about making an all-night run? We'd be inside the
Wight before morning."

"I'm game," replied Broadmayne, dumping his suit-case in the stern
sheets of the dinghy.

It was a short distance to row out to the moorings on which the _Ibex_
lay. The motor yacht, riding to the first of the young flood, looked
smart and seamanlike in the afternoon sunlight. From the short,
slender mast fluttered the club burgee, hoisted for the last time on
that particular craft. A loose-footed lugsail and small foresail
formed the sum-total of the yacht's canvas. Vyse rarely made use of
the sails, since the motors never gave trouble. In the event of a
mechanical breakdown, the _Ibex_ might do four miles an hour with the
wind abaft the beam; but with her light draught she would sag to
lee'ard like a barrel.

Rollo disappeared into the motor-room, leaving his chum to stow his
gear and make the dinghy fast alongside. Bitter experience in the
shape of a painter getting hopelessly foul of one of the propellers
had prompted this course. Not until the yacht was forging ahead
would the dinghy be allowed to tow astern.

First one, then both of the motors began to purr rhythmically. Vyse
appeared on deck, gave a perfunctory glance over the side to see
that the circulating pumps were working, and nodded to his
companion.

"Let go!" he exclaimed.

With a splash and a rattle of chain, the mooring buoy was dropped.
Slowly the _Ibex_ drifted upstream until Vyse from his post in the
wheelhouse could see the buoy bobbing twenty feet from the bows.

Putting the helm over, Rollo pulled both levers into the ahead
position. Instantly the little craft shot forward, cleared her buoy
and headed for the open sea.

"Dinghy on deck?" queried the Sub coming aft.

"No, she'll tow astern," was the reply. "There's no sea to speak of
outside. Give her plenty of painter."

Broadmayne did so. This done, he lighted a cigarette and took up a
position slightly in the wake of the helmsman.

Neither spoke much. Both enjoyed the lift of the following waves as
the keen bows of the _Ibex_ cleft the dancing waters. They were afloat
with a definite object in view. For the present, nothing else
mattered.

Rollo Vyse was too good an engineer to attempt to run the motors all
out. For one thing, it was bad for the bearings if the engines were
run "all out" for any length of time, and he wasn't anxious to
deliver the _Ibex_ to her new owner with her anatomy resembling a box
of chattering scrap iron. For another, he did not wish to cover the
one hundred and thirty miles between Fowey and the Wight at such a
speed that the _Ibex_ would be in the narrow waters of the Solent
before sunrise. What he aimed for, was to reach Southampton before
noon, thus giving ample time to perform the necessary formalities
connected with the handing over of the yacht.

The Start was abeam just as the sun was setting. The _Ibex_ gave that
dangerous headland with its treacherous overfalls a wide berth, and
shaped a course to pass seven miles to the south'ard of that
nightmare to cautious mariners--Portland Bill.

It was a warm, almost balmy night. The thick clouds, acting as a
blanket, totally obscured the stars, but kept the temperature
remarkably high for the time of year. All the same, after having
shared a meal on deck, the two chums were glad to don oilskins and
mufflers before undertaking their long vigil.

"Aren't you funky of going into the motor-room with that?" inquired
Broadmayne, as Rollo appeared from an examination of the oil gauges
of the automatic lubricators, his features glowing in the glare of a
lighted cigarette.

"Goodness--no," replied the other, with a laugh. "Haven't you ever
seen a fellow shove a lighted cigarette into a full tin of petrol?"

"Haven't and don't want to," replied the cautious Sub.

"Well, it's not the petrol; it's the petrol fumes that are the
danger," continued Vyse. "There's far more danger from the fumes in
an empty petrol can than there is in a full one. The motor-room is
well ventilated and there are trays to catch any drops from the
carburettors, so you see I am careful.... Aren't the engines going
beautifully? Eight hundred revs., and hardly any vibration."

For the next two hours the two sat perched on the low bulkhead on
the after side of the wheelhouse, Vyse occasionally touching the
wheel to correct the vessel's slight tendency to fall off to
starboard.

"We ought to spot Portland Light very soon," he remarked. "That is,
unless there's local fog about."

"I'll look," said Broadmayne, unstrapping his binoculars.

Steadying himself with legs set widely apart, the Sub stood erect
upon the roof of the wheelhouse.

"Nothing in sight yet," he announced.

The next instant the _Ibex_ trembled under a violent shock. For the
moment she seemed to lose way. Broadmayne, thrown off his balance,
pitched forward, falling at full length upon the coach-roof over the
motor-room. There he lay, grabbing at the low brass railing, until,
feeling a bit dazed and shaken, he made his way aft.

"What's up?" he inquired breathlessly.

"Hit a bit of wreckage, I think," replied Rollo. "Gave her a bit of
a biff. You're not hurt? Good, I thought you'd stove-in your
deadlights, old man, by the way you fell."

His anxiety relieved concerning his chum, Rollo Vyse's next thoughts
were for the yacht. As far as he knew, the _Ibex_ had not fouled
either of her propellers. Evidently her forefoot had thrust down the
submerged object sufficiently to enable the cut-away stern to clear.

"Hang on to the wheel a jiffy while I go below and have a look
round," he said; and, picking up an electric torch from a rack in
the wheelhouse, he dived below.

He was gone some time--nearly a quarter of an hour. When he
reappeared, he reported that the boat was not making any water
beyond a slight trickle through the stern gland of the starboard
propeller.

"I think she must have given her prop. a bash," he added. "There's
an unusual noise as if the shaft isn't running true. You can't hear
it from here."

"There's Portland Light!" exclaimed Broadmayne, as four pin-pricks
of white appeared on the port bow. "Rather close in, aren't we?"

"Indraught, perhaps," replied his chum. "We'll stand out a bit.
South eighty east will do."

The Sub made the necessary alteration in helm. Midnight passed.
Portland Light was drawing abeam. According to Vyse's calculations,
it ought to have been passed a couple of hours earlier.

"Guess there's a hot tide against us," he remarked. "Or, perhaps we
aren't doing nine knots. It's all right so far; we've an ample
margin."

The sea had now grown distinctly agitated, although there was little
or no wind. Rollo put it down to the backwash from Portland Race,
the roar of which was distinctly audible--a disconcerting noise on a
dark night. "Now we're closing the Shambles Lightship. We ought soon
to pick up Anvil Point. I'll have another look round below and then
I'll bring up some hot drinks."

Instead of going down the engine-room hatchway, as before, Vyse made
his way for'ard, gaining the saloon direct by means of another
hatch. Above the gentle purr of the motors the loud buzzing of a
Primus stove was borne to the Sub's ears, a grateful and comforting
sound that gave promise of something piping hot within the next ten
minutes.

Glancing at his watch, Broadmayne was rather surprised to find that
it was nearly two o'clock. By means of rough compass bearings he
calculated that the _Ibex_ was about eight miles S.W. by W. of St.
Albans. A few minutes later the two powerful lights ashore were
blotted out.

About that time a vessel showing white and green navigation lamps
passed at not less than a mile away. It was too dark to see what she
was like, but the muffled pulsations of an internal combustion
engine were distinctly audible.

A dazzling light from the _Ibex's_ motor-room suddenly attracted the
Sub's attention. Peering down the half-open hatchway he expected to
see Vyse doing inspection work with his electric torch.

To his surprise, he saw that the light came from under the port
engine--a steady flare of yellow light that was already licking the
sides of the cylinders.

Before Broadmayne could utter a warning shout the steady flame
developed into a sheet of fire. A blast of hot air tinged with
tongues of ruddy flame shot up through the open hatchway. Yet Vyse
gave no indication that he was aware of the peril.

Quitting the wheel, the Sub dashed for'ard. He could see his chum,
sublimely unconscious of the inferno raging the other side of the
steel bulkhead, crouching over the sizzling frying-pan on the Primus
stove.

"Fire in the motor-room!" shouted Broadmayne. "Where are the
Pyrenes?"

Even then Rollo showed no great haste until looking up he caught a
glimpse of the Sub's startled face.

"All right!" he bawled--shouting was the only means of making
himself heard with the roar of the atmospheric gas stove. "All
right. They're in there. I'll get them."

With that he shot back the sliding door in the metal bulkhead. A
blast of hot air and flames sent him backwards, half-dazed.
Involuntarily he raised one hand to protect his eyes; then backing
through the compartment next the seat of the fire, he gained the
saloon.

He had left the bulkhead door open. A tongue of fire licked the
panelled ceiling of the saloon. Madly he turned, swarmed up the
ladder and gained the open air.

Seeing his chum safe, the Sub did the best possible thing.
Descending into the saloon, he fought his way to the bulkhead and
closed the door. Then emerging by the same way he had entered, he
ran aft over the already excessively hot cabin top and closed the
engine-room hatchway. There was a chance--a hundred to one
chance--that the flames might die out through lack of oxygen.

"Come aft!" shouted Broadmayne.

Vyse, now gaining more control over himself, obeyed. By now the
motors had ceased to function. The flames, igniting the petrol in
the carburettors, had melted the unions of the petrol-pipes. Instead
of the inflammable spirit mixing with air and exploding within the
cylinders--as it ought to do, two steady streams were pouring direct
from the tanks, to add fresh fuel to the flames.

"Thirty gallons in the tanks!" shouted Rollo in reply to his
companion's unspoken question. "I'll go for'ard and turn off the
taps. We'll be blown sky-high if we don't."

He placed one foot on the coaming before hoisting himself over the
roof of the wheel-house. As he did so, the motor-room skylight blew
out with a loud report, sending a pillar of flame-tinged smoke a
full thirty feet into the air, and throwing every part of the deck
into bold relief by reason of the dazzling light.

"That's done it!" shouted Rollo. "We can't save her now. The dinghy,
old man!"

At first the Sub could see no sign of the tender. He fully expected
to see her trailing astern, but as the burning _Ibex_ had lost all way
the dinghy had ranged up alongside the starboard side.

There was no time to save anything. Casting off the painter,
Broadmayne shouted to his companion to look alive. Vyse leapt into
the dinghy, the Sub followed, giving a vigorous push as he sat down
and sending the little cockleshell clear of the floating inferno.

"Where's the other scull?" demanded Broadmayne anxiously.

There was only one in the dinghy. By some means one had been lost
overboard. How or when, they knew not; nor could they waste time in
forming conjectures; and since there was no sculling-notch in the
transom, the only way to propel the little craft was by paddling
with alternate strokes on either side.

It was slow work; but not before the dinghy was fifty yards away
from the burning _Ibex_ did the Sub boat his oar.

"Now what's to be done?" he inquired.

"Wait and see the last of her," replied Vyse. "Luckily, she's fully
insured."

"You'll be lucky if you are alive to draw the money," thought
Broadmayne, for it was a most unenviable position to be in. Ten
miles from land, and almost every foot of that land a frowning,
surf-swept cliff, Portland Race to the west'ard and St. Albans Race
waiting for them if they attempted to close the land. Although the
wind was light, almost a flat calm, there was a steady swell,
indicating a strong breeze, perhaps a gale, before very long.
Overhead, save for the ruddy glare from the fiercely burning yacht,
it was as black as pitch. Not a star was visible. It was only by
remembering that the faint breeze came from the west'ard (and it
might back or veer at any time) could any sense of direction be
maintained.

In silence the two chums watched the passing of the _Ibex_. Amidships,
flames were pouring fifty feet into the air. The coach-roof and part
of the top strikes had gone to feed the flames, the cracking of
woodwork adding to the roar of the burning petrol. Sizzling embers
were falling like sparks from a dying squib, hissing as they dropped
into the water. It was a question as to what would happen first:
whether the hull, burned to the water's edge, would founder before
the fire reached the fuel tanks.

Suddenly there was a terrific flash that, compared with the raging
flames, was like an arc-lamp and a candle. Almost immediately after
came a stupendous roar, like the discharge of a warship's broadside.
In the midst of the up-flung volcano of flame appeared the whole of
the forepart of the cabin top. With apparent slowness it turned over
and over until it fell with a loud splash within twenty yards of the
dinghy. Then, with a hiss like the last defiant note of a dying
viper, the last of the burning wreckage disappeared from view,
leaving the dinghy tossing aimlessly on the heavy waters, surrounded
by a pall of darkness that was rendered all the more opaque by the
sudden transition from the blazing light.

"What's the time?" inquired Vyse, breaking the silence.

The Sub consulted the face of his luminous watch.

"Half-past two."

"And daylight's not till about seven--four and a half hours. Well,
what's the programme? What's the coast like hereabouts?"

"Precious few landing-places," replied the Sub. "Lulworth Cove,
Chapman Pool and perhaps Warborough Bay. Might make one of 'em; but
the chances are we'd fetch up on Kimmeridge Ledges. The closer
inshore we get, the more likely we are to encounter short steep
seas. Best keep well out till dawn."

"Perishing cold job," grumbled Rollo, who, before going below for
the last time had discarded his oilskin coat. Fortunately for him,
the Sub still wore his pegamoid. "And it's not much use talking
about getting ashore. We can't row ten miles with one scull."

"That's so," agreed Broadmayne soberly. "I vote we paddle. Take
quarter of an hour spells. That'll keep us warm. The fellow who
isn't paddling can wear my oilskin coat. Wish we'd had our grub
before we started on this little cruise in a tub."

"Luckily we have plenty to smoke," remarked Vyse. "Have a
cigarette?"

The word cigarette brought the Sub's thoughts back to the disaster.

"Wonder how the fire started?" he asked. "You weren't in the
motor-room at all, were you?"

"No," replied Rollo. "Not the last time. I meant to go directly we'd
had something to eat. It's just possible that when we bumped against
that lump of wreckage the jar might have started one of the petrol
pipes. And then it might be anything: short circuit of one of the
high tension wires, for example."

Slowly--painfully slowly--the hours sped. In spite of frequent
spells at the scull Vyse felt the cold acutely; more so than did his
companion, for he had been rather badly scorched about the face, and
the night air irritated rather than soothed the sting.

Once, when a gentle breeze sprang up, they thrust a stretcher
through the arms of the pegamoid coat and lashed it to the oar,
stepping the latter as a mast. For about twenty minutes the dinghy
maintained a steady rate of progress. Broadmayne entertained hopes
of making either Swanage Bay or the sandy shore of Bournemouth Bay.
Then the wind died utterly away.

"What's the time?" inquired Vyse, for the thirtieth time at least.

"Quarter-past six," replied the Sub, without making the least effort
to stifle a prodigious yawn.

"Another three-quarters of an hour before dawn," muttered Rollo.
"There's a light astern."

Broadmayne looked.

"Shambles Lightship," he declared. "It's clearing a bit. We haven't
made much progress. The tide must be setting to the west'ard. Hello,
what's that?"

"What's what?" asked Vyse, following the direction of' his
companion's outstretched arm. "Can't see anything."

"There, about a hundred yards off. By Jove, it's a ship."

"It is, by smoke!" admitted Rollo.

"No lights. She's not making way," continued the Sub, speaking more
to himself than to his chum. "Strange--decidedly so. Abandoned,
perhaps."

"Listen!" exclaimed Vyse. "Voices."

Without replying, Broadmayne seized the paddle and commenced to
propel the dinghy in the direction of the mysterious vessel. For
mysterious she undoubtedly was. No ordinary craft would be lying
without way and showing no riding-light. Smugglers, perhaps, but to
Gerald Broadmayne it meant shelter--any port in a storm.

It was slow work. Ten minutes' frantic work with the scull brought
the dinghy close under the strange vessel's starboard quarter.

"Nothing in sight, sir!" exclaimed a deep voice.

"By Jove! she'll be forging ahead in half a shake," thought the Sub,
and, throwing down his oar, he hailed the unknown craft: "Ship ahoy!
Throw us a line!"



CHAPTER VII

THE CAPTURE OF THE _CAP HOORN_


"SHEER off!" shouted Captain Cain, leaning over the bridge-rails and
directing the full blast of his powerful voice upon the still
unknown craft alongside. "Stand clear; we're going full ahead in
half a shake."

"Hang on a minute, Cap'n!" replied Broadmayne. "There are only two
of us--survivors of the yacht _Ibex_, burnt late last night. If you
won't take us on board you might give us some grub and water. We're
famished and horribly cold, you know."

Captain Cain made a brief mental review of the situation, as far as
he knew of the facts. He was not a soft-hearted man--far from it.
There would be very little risk to the occupants of the boat if they
remained adrift for a few hours longer. They were bound to be picked
up by some of the up- and down-Channel traffic. He could provide
them with a few provisions and then go ahead.

On the other hand, he was quite in the dark as to what the two men
in the boat had seen or heard. It was much too early for the _Alerte_
to reveal her true character, that of a submarine pirate craft. And
it was very disconcerting when he, the captain, was congratulating
himself that, the _Alerte_ had been armed and had gone through
additional diving tests under cover of darkness, to find a boat
lying alongside with two persons in her who might be remarkably cute
in spotting anything out of the ordinary at sea.

The simplest solution was to drop a pig of ballast through the
bottom of the boat and leave the two men to their fate. They
couldn't keep afloat very long in the open Channel in November. On
their own admission, they were cold and famished. They'd sink within
five minutes.

But the suggestion was dismissed as quickly as it had been formed.
Captain Cain was strongly opposed to taking life wantonly, whether
it be man or beast. If occasion arose with sufficient justification
for his point of view, the pirate captain would shoot down any one
in cold blood or otherwise. Again, he had pledged himself to his
crew, and for the present it was policy to abide by his plighted
word, that he was against performing any violent act against the
crews of British ships, and were not these two men British survivors
of a disaster?

And, judging by the tone of the man who had spoken, one of the
survivors was some one of good, possibly high birth. In any case,
the pair might prove useful additional hands to the _Alerte's_
complement. If they wouldn't, well he'd make them. There was also
the chance that the distressed mariners might be people of social
standing and wealth. Then there would be a good opportunity to
demand ransom. Coming on top of the Chamfer incident, Captain Cain
decided such a possibility seemed no probability. He would be lucky,
indeed, if he could repeat his previous success in that direction.

All this flashed through the ready brain of the pirate captain in a
very few seconds. Quickly he made up his mind.

"Come aboard!" he said briefly.

One of the hands caught the dinghy's painter. A rope ladder was
lowered down the perpendicular side of the _Alerte_, and with a final
effort to control their cramped limbs, Vyse and Broadmayne contrived
to reach the deck of the pirate submarine.

"Take them below!" ordered Captain Cain from the height of the
bridge. "Tell Davis to serve them with a good hot meal. They can
berth for'ard."

With his head swimming and his knees giving way under him, Rollo
Vyse was glad to have the assistance of a couple of the crew to take
him below. Broadmayne, although feeling decidedly groggy, still
retained sufficient alertness of mind to take stock of his immediate
surroundings as far as the first streaks of red dawn permitted.

The steel deck littered with kelp and seaweed was in itself
suspicious, unless the vessel were a trawler and had just emptied
her nets on deck. But there was not the peculiar smell that steam
trawlers cannot get away from.

Directly the Sub found himself below, he knew.

"By Jove!" he soliloquised. "She's a sub marine."

In spite of his hunger and fatigue, Broadmayne puzzled his brains
over the strange situation. What was a submarine, disguised as a
surface ship, doing in the Channel? Her officers and crew were not
in naval uniform, although several of them had unmistakable
indications of having served under the white ensign. The owner,
especially, had the cut of a _pukka_ naval man.

"Perhaps she's a new type of Q-ship," he thought. "If the manoeuvres
were on, I could understand it. Won't it be a joke if she is a
mystery ship; and won't the owner feel a bit sick when he finds he's
harbouring an inquisitive Sub on board his hooker? Like his
confounded cheek, though, making us mess and berth for'ard."

Soon the two chums were sitting down to a hot, substantial meal.
They were not alone. The crew's quarters in which they were
sheltering was occupied by the best part of the watch below, about a
dozen rather smart and alert men, older than the usual run of naval
ratings. The Sub noticed that, without exception, they looked a bit
tired and fatigued, consequently he was not surprised to find that
his attempts to broach a conversation were resolutely, yet politely,
rebuffed. Foiled in that direction, Broadmayne tried to pick up the
threads of the scanty scraps of conversation. Again he was foiled.
Every sentence he overheard had no bearing upon life on board.
"Shop" in the crew's quarter seemed to be taboo.

He glanced at Vyse. Rollo, having made a good meal, was leaning back
on the settee with his eyes closed. The problem offered no
difficulties to the owner of the burnt-out _Ibex_, for the simple
reason that he was comfortably dozing.

The Sub looked at the clock in the bulkhead. It was a quarter-past
eight. Although it was day, no natural light penetrated the interior
of the hull. The submarine was running on the surface. The pulsation
of the internal combustion engines proved that.

A man clad in blue cloth trousers, sweater and sea-boots entered the
compartment and began to remove the empty plates.

"Had a good tuck in, chum?" he inquired. "All right--best turn in
for a spell. There's your bunks, blankets and all. Captain won't
want to see you afore three bells in the second dog."

"Thank you," replied Broadmayne. He, too, was feeling drowsy.
Perhaps it was the heat of the confined space. He touched Vyse on
the shoulder.

"Turn in, old man!" he exclaimed.

"What for?" demanded his chum rebelliously; then his desire to
sleep dominated all other inclinations. Merely kicking off his
rubber-boots, Vyse turned in all standing. The Sub followed his
example, and a couple of minutes later both men were lost in heavy,
dreamless slumber.

Meanwhile Captain Cain, whose almost unbounded energy could keep him
going at high pressure for thirty-six hours without any desire for
sleep, was standing on the bridge of the _Alerte_ as she stood
southward at eight knots.

He was at the wheel. With the exception of one mechanic standing by
the Diesel motors, all hands were enjoying a few hours' well-earned
rest. Shortly after the crew of the _Ibex_ had been taken on board, a
wireless message had been picked up that gave Captain Cain an
inspiration upon which he determined to act.

The wireless message was from the Norddeutscher-Lloyd intermediate
boat _Cap Hoorn_, to the Ushant signalling-station, reporting that
she was ninety miles W. by S. of Ushant, homeward bound from Bremen.

Already the pirate captain had "looked her up" in the shipping
register. He found that the _Cap Hoorn_ was a vessel of 8500 tons,
with a speed of fifteen knots. Coming from Buenos Ayres and Rio, she
would be certain to have a valuable cargo. It was a risky business
to hold her up, but Captain Cain, having weighed the pros and cons,
decided to intercept her.

At noon the _Alerte's_ crew were roused. Preparations were immediately
started to disguise the ship. The funnel was given a different
coloured coat of paint; the masts, previously light brown with black
above the hounds, were painted a uniform shade of dark grey. The
bridge and funnel were bodily shifted twenty feet aft, and the
position of the ventilating cowls altered. Finally, on both bows and
astern the name _Alerte_ was covered by strips of painted cloth
bearing the name _Cimeterre_, and the French tricolour hoisted aft.

"I'm going to put the breeze up a Hun, my lads," he announced.
"She's now on her way up-Channel. She's a lump of a boat, but we'll
get her. Remember that for this occasion you're Frenchmen. When we
board her, keep your mouths shut and let Mr. Pengelly grease his
jaw-tackle. He can speak French like a native and German quite
enough to make himself understood. I'm not going to hurt Fritz more
than I can help. It depends upon himself. If she heaves to, as I
expect she'll do, Mr. Pengelly will take half a dozen hands, all
armed, and see what's of use to us----"

"Sail on the starboard beam, sir!" shouted the look-out man. "Black
hull, white top-hamper, two funnels all yellow."

"That's our pigeon," declared Pengelly; then noticing his partner
glare, he hastened to add the previously omitted "sir."

"Very good, Mr. Pengelly," sang out the captain. "Tell off your
boat's crew in readiness. Fall in, Q. F. numbers; signalman, stand
by and hoist the I. D."

The _Alerte_ and the _Cap Hoorn_ were approaching almost at right angles
to each other's course. As the positions of the ships went, the
_Alerte_ would bring the German's port side on her starboard bow, in
which case, under the "Rules and Regulations for Preventing
Collisions at Sea," the former had to give way.

Nearer and nearer came the huge Norddeutscher-Lloyd vessel, showing
the "bone in her jaw" as she flung out a tremendous bow-wave.
Unswervingly, both vessels held on. The _Cap Hoorn_ blew a warning
blast on her syren.

"Hard-a-starboard!" ordered Captain Cain, at the same time motioning
the alert signalman. Round swept the _Alerte_, until she was on a
parallel course to that of her victim. The screens concealing the
quick-firer were lowered and the muzzle of the weapon swung round.
Simultaneously the signal I. D. (Heave-to, or I will fire into you)
was hoisted; followed, without waiting for the _Cap Hoorn's_ reply, by
LDA--ZMX (Disconnect your wireless apparatus).

The two vessels were now roughly four hundred yards apart. Through
his binoculars, Captain Cain observed with considerable satisfaction
that the German officers and men were in a state of panic, while the
passengers, guessing that something was amiss but ignorant of the
true state of affairs, crowded to the side.

The pirate captain rang for full speed ahead. Almost immediately,
the pulsations of the motors increased, and the _Alerte_ quickly
attained her maximum speed, equal to that of the _Cap Hoorn_.

Still the latter showed no sign of stopping her engines. From her
bridge a three flag hoist went up.

"WCX, sir!" reported the _Alerte's_ signalman, as he rapidly turned
over the pages of the Code Book, adding as he discovered the
message, "Signals not understood, though flags are distinguished."

"More bluff!" ejaculated Captain Cain. "I'll send 'em a message that
won't bear misunderstanding. Captain of the gun!" he continued,
raising his voice. "Give her one above the waterline. Knock her
rudder-head to smithereens."

The quick-firer spat viciously. Considering the gun-layer had had no
previous experience with that particular type of weapon, the result
was highly creditable to his professional skill.

The projectile struck the _Cap Hoorn_ about ten feet for'ard of the
rudder and about four feet above the waterline. It made a clean hole
where it entered, but of the devastating effect of the explosive
shell there was little doubt. Splinters and slivers of metal flew
high in the air. Flames and smoke poured from a jagged hole in the
poop. The red, white and black ensign, its staff shattered by the
explosion, was whisked fifty yards astern.

Twenty seconds later the _Cap Hoorn's_ propellers were going astern;
but owing to the rudder-head being pulverised, the massive rudder
swung hard over to starboard. Slowly her head began to pay off
towards her antagonist. Men armed with fire extinguishers and hoses
were seen running aft. With indecorous haste another German
mercantile ensign was hoisted and as promptly lowered in token of
surrender.

"Look alive, Mr. Pengelly!" exclaimed the pirate captain. "You know
your orders?"

"Ay, ay, sir," was the reply.

A boat was lowered. Into it went Pengelly and half a dozen men, all
armed with automatic pistols. By this time Captain Cain had got way
off his ship, the two vessels being now about a cable's length
apart.

The boat's crew gave way with a will, their comrades, with the
exception of the men at the quick-firer, crowding to the side to
watch their progress.

"Mr. Barnard!" shouted Captain Cain.

The bo's'un doubled aft and saluted.

"What's that man doing on deck?" inquired the skipper angrily,
pointing to Gerald Broadmayne, who, unobserved by the hands on deck,
had come up from below and was watching the unusual sight.

"Dunno, sir," replied Mr. Barnard helplessly. "Both of 'em were
sound asleep when last I looked in."

As a matter of fact, the bo'sun, in the excitement of the one-sided
enjoyment, had completely forgotten about the presence of the two
strangers on board. He had omitted to lock the door between the
men's quarters and the vestibule immediately underneath the base of
the conning-tower.

"All right, let him alone," decided Captain Cain, as he reflected
grimly that now the cat was out of the bag, his involuntary guests
would have to remain on board at all costs, until the termination of
the cruise, wherever and whenever it might be.

"So that's the game, is it?" thought the Sub. His searching eyes
quickly took in the evidence of the incriminating surroundings--the
quick-firer trained abeam, with a still smoking shell-case lying
close to the mounting; the French ensign floating over a vessel
whose crew were British and, for the most part, West-country folk;
the men all armed with automatic pistols; least and not last a
boarding party on their way to the disabled German liner.
"Piracy--out and out piracy."

Like those of the _Alerte's_ crew who remained on board, Broadmayne
found his interest centre on the boat containing Pengelly and his
armed companions.

Before the boat had ranged up alongside the _Cap Hoorn_, the German
crew had lowered the accommodation-ladder.

Headed by Pengelly, the boarders ran up the ladder. At the gangway
they were met by the captain and several of the officers of the
captured vessel; while gathered at a respectful distance were about
thirty of the crew and those of the passengers whose curiosity had
overcome their timidity.

There was no sign of resistance. Pengelly, escorted by the German
captain, disappeared from view, three of his men following him. The
others, with the exception of the boat-keeper, drove the passengers
and crew for'ard like a flock of sheep.

"No guts!" soliloquised Broadmayne scornfully. "Can you imagine a
British ship with that sized crew chucking up the sponge? They'd
rush the blighters even if they only had broomsticks."

Presently one of the _Alerte's_ boarders at the head of the
accommodation-ladder held up a small white flag. It was a
pre-arranged signal. As long as it remained held aloft, it indicated
that the looters were having things all their own way. Should the
Germans turn upon their captors, the white flag would be dropped.
Then, and only then, would the _Alerte's_ quick-firer pump shell after
shell into the huge target presented by the motionless _Cap Hoorn_.

Twice there came the dull report of an explosion. The crew of the
quick-firer tautened, the captain of the gun looking inquiringly at
the imperturbable figure on the _Alerte's_ bridge. But Captain Cain
gave no sign. The white hand-flag was still conspicuously displayed
at the gangway of the prize. Occasionally he swept the horizon with
his binoculars, ready at the first sign of an approaching craft to
recall his merry men and seek safety in flight.

An hour and ten minutes after the boat had pushed off from the
_Alerte_, Pengelly descended the _Cap Hoorn's_ accommodation-ladder. The
boat, heavily laden, headed back to her degenerate parent and was
hoisted up in davits.

"Well?" inquired Captain Cain laconically.

"Skinned 'em, sir," replied Pengelly, with a broad grin.



CHAPTER VIII

A PROPOSAL SCORNED


AGAIN the _Alerte_ hoisted a signal. It was to give the _Cap Hoorn_
permission to proceed.

Steering like a dray, since the destruction of the rudder-head had
left her with only her twin screws to manoeuvre with, the German
liner forged ahead, turned eight degrees to starboard and shaped a
course for the invisible French coast.

The _Alerte_, without waiting for her prey to disappear from sight,
worked up to a speed of eight knots, steering in a northerly
direction, or towards the shores of England.

"What happened?" asked Captain Cain.

"Went through the ship's papers," replied the lieutenant. "Found
that she's eighteen million marks of specie in her strong-room.
Blighters swore they hadn't a key--trust Fritz for bluffing or
attempting to bluff. So we had to blow off the lock. Then we had a
round-up of the first-class passengers. By smoke! They shelled out
like lambs. The proceeds are in that sack"--pointing to a
well-filled canvas bag lying against the base of the conning-tower.
"It was poor sport relieving a white-livered crowd like that. And
the joke of the whole business is that the German skipper thought we
were Frenchmen. I told him that war had been declared between France
and Germany, and that he was to proceed straight for Cherbourg.
Warned him that if he attempted to run for it, or to use his
wireless, there'd be considerable trouble. I'd like to see what
happens when the _Cap Hoorn_ gives herself up to the naval authorities
at Cherbourg."

"Unfortunately--or, perhaps, fortunately--we cannot be present,"
rejoined Captain Cain; then addressing the quartermaster, he ordered
the ship to turn fifteen points to port, or nearly in a reverse
direction to the course she had been following.

"Why?" inquired Pengelly. "There'll be half a dozen French torpedo
craft on our track. Wouldn't it be wiser to make ourselves scarce?"

"I am keeping the rendezvous in the Chenal du Four," replied the
captain. Being in a high good humour, he could afford to be affable
to his querulous subordinate. "The news will be wirelessed
everywhere within the next few hours that the _Cap Hoorn_ was stopped
and plundered by an unknown vessel masquerading as a French
government auxiliary craft, which, when last sighted, was steering
to the nor'ard. Consequently, every one responsible for hunting us
will reason much as you did--that we're off either to the English or
Irish coasts. They won't dream of looking for us in the
neighbourhood of Ushant. _L'audace_, Pengelly, _toujours l'audace_:
that's the winning card. All right; carry on. Set the hands to work
to remove our disguise. For the next day or so, the _Alerte_ will be
the _Alerte_. I'll interview those fellows we picked up this morning.
Tell Marchant to bring one of them to my cabin. I won't see them
together."

Captain Cain was on the point of descending the bridge-ladder, when
he stopped and exclaimed in a voice loud enough for the watch on
deck to hear:

"We'll make a partial division of the coin at one-bell, Mr.
Pengelly. Pass the word to the hands."

Going below to his cabin, the skipper began to make preparations to
receive his involuntary guests. They had come aboard of their own
free will, it was true, but already they had discovered that getting
away from the _Alerte_ was quite a different matter.

Presently the gunner knocked at the door.

"Mr. Broadmayne, sir," he reported.

"Take that chair, Mr. Broadmayne," said Captain Cain.

The Sub did so. Although giving away the slight advantage he
possessed in height, he realised that it was decidedly uncomfortable
having to be interviewed with his shoulders bent to prevent his head
touching the sweating steel roof of the little cabin.

"I suppose," resumed the pirate, with a slight tone of irony, "that
you are already acquainted with the nature of the craft that has
given you shelter?"

"I'd be remarkably dense if I weren't," replied Broadmayne.

"And what, might I ask, is the result of your investigations?"
inquired Captain Cain suavely.

"To put it bluntly," rejoined the Sub, "you're a filibuster--a
pirate."

"That's putting the case rather strong," protested Captain Cain.
"The vessel we intercepted was a Hun. I was fighting Germans in the
high seas when you were a child in arms, I imagine. I saw enough to
make me vow I'd go bald-headed for one whenever I had a chance. That
chance I took to-day."

"I won't question your motives," remarked Broadmayne imperturbably.
"But I take it you have no Admiralty warrant to act as a privateer
in peacetime? Then, as I said before, you must be a pirate. Rather
interesting, what? I was under the impression that gentlemen of that
type were as extinct as the dodo."

"Who and what are you, Mr. Broadmayne?" demanded Captain Cain.

"Sub-lieutenant, Royal Navy."

"You are--or were?"

"Am," declared Broadmayne, with a tone that indicated he was proud
of his profession.

A look of disappointment flitted across the face of the pirate
captain.

"Then what were you doing on a private yacht?"

The Sub told him.

"Vyse, did you say?" interrupted Captain Cain. "Vyse? Any relation
to the north-country magnate of that name?"

"Son," replied Broadmayne. The next instant he felt angry with
himself for having divulged that part.

"Really!" exclaimed the other. "That's most interesting. Well, Mr.
Broadmayne, I'm afraid I must ask you and your friend to remain on
board for the remainder of the cruise. It won't be a protracted one,
I assure you. You can have the run of the ship, except at such times
when it will be necessary to order you below. Of course, considering
we have saved your lives--your dinghy would have been swamped when
the sea rose an hour after you were rescued--and that we have to
feed you, a monetary payment is expected. But there is one
alternative. I don't suppose you'll accept it first going off. That
is, if you both care to join us in our enterprise--remember, we are
not molesting a single British subject--then you will be entitled to
a fair share of the proceeds, which I can assure you are far from
being inconsiderable." Broadmayne made no reply. He was puzzling his
brains, but not on account of the pirate's seductive proposition. He
had seen the man somewhere, but where? Suddenly he remembered.

"I am more than surprised to find a former naval officer engaged on
a stunt of this description," he remarked bluntly.

Captain Cain's features went a dusky red under his tan. The pulses
of his temples were throbbing like steam-pistons.

"How do you know what I've been?" he inquired harshly. There was a
dominant note in his voice. Most men would have quailed before it.
The Sub showed no sign of trepidation. On the contrary, he felt
considerably elated at having found a weak spot in his antagonist's
armour.

"Some years ago," resumed Broadmayne, "I was one of a party of
cadets who were taken round to Devonport from Dartmouth in a
destroyer--the _Calder_, Lieutenant-Commander Sefton. It was one of
the usual day instructional cruises, you know. On that occasion the
cadets were shown over some of the submarines lying in the Hamoaze.
There was a two-and-a-half striper who did the showing round. Some
time later, he had to sever his connection with the Service--kicked
out, in fact. No need to mention names."

Captain Cain controlled his rage with an effort.

"Quite correct," he rejoined. "However, Mr. Broadmayne, you will
please remember that while you are on this craft you will keep that
knowledge to yourself."

"I am not in the habit of trading on any one's past," replied the
Sub. "But I have a strong objection to attempted intimidation. If
circumstances warrant my making use of the information bearing on
your former career, I'll do so. And, let me add, I consider your
offer that we should throw in our lot with your piratical crowd an
insult. My answer, if an answer be required, is NO!"

Without another word, Captain Cain touched the bell-push.

"I'll make this young puppy feel sorry for himself before I've done
with him," he said to himself.

The gunner answered the summons.

"Take Mr. Broadmayne on deck," ordered the pirate captain, "and
bring Mr. Vyse to me."

Presently Rollo Vyse appeared. He was sorry he had missed an
opportunity of speaking to his chum, as he was entirely in the dark
as to what had occurred.

To him Captain Cain made a similar proposition, which he "turned
down" even more forcibly than the Sub had done.

"So that's your attitude, is it?" exclaimed the pirate, losing
control of his temper. "Very well. Here are pens, ink and paper. You
will write a letter to your wealthy parent, informing him that you
are detained on board a certain ship and that you will be deprived
of your liberty until the sum of one thousand pounds is paid to the
person named therein. You will add that it is useless to set the
police upon my agent. He knows nothing and is acting in all good
faith. Now then, one thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, none
of which is to exceed ten pounds."

Lighting a cigarette and picking up a book, Captain Cain feigned to
have lost interest in his victim.

For some moments Rollo sat quietly thinking. "S'pose I'll have to
humour the silly ass," he decided, and took up a pen.

For nearly twenty minutes Vyse was engaged upon the demand for
ransom. He was not writing all the time. There were intervals when
the rapid movement of the scratchy pen ceased, causing the pirate
captain to glance inquiringly over his book.

"How will that do?" asked Rollo at last.

Captain Cain took the proffered paper and read:


"DEAR FATHER,--This is a request to _pay_ up. Broadmayne and I were
rescued from the _Ibex_, which was burnt at sea. There's no need to
worry. We're given every _attention_ and are comfortable. But the
captain of the ship we're on is going to detain us till our expenses
are paid. _This_, he states, is One thousand pounds. Sounds a
_preposterous_ sum, doesn't it? However, that is the extent of his
_demand_, so I hope you'll settle and let us have our freedom. We're
in for a rough time otherwise. The money is to be in five and ten
pound notes, payable to the person named below.--Your affectionate
Son,
                                                   "ROLLO VYSE."


"Is that your usual signature?" asked Captain Cain.

"Certainly."

"Very good," continued the pirate, folding the sheet, putting it in
an envelope and placing it carefully between the leaves of a
blotter. "I'll see that it's forwarded to its proper destination.
You may go."

Vyse went. In the alleyway he gave a grim chuckle. His letter had
been carefully composed. Several of the words were underlined. To a
casual observer the lines would appear to be the lavish crossing of
the letter "t" in the line below. Captain Cain had not spotted it.
The underlined words read: "Pay no attention to this preposterous
demand." Rollo had no doubt that when his father received the
letter, his shrewdness would quickly enable him to read the
camouflaged message.

He found Broadmayne pacing the poop. For the present, none of the
crew were aft. The _Alerte_ had resumed the features she possessed
when she left Falmouth. No outside observer would have recognised
her as the vessel that had stopped the _Cap Hoorn_ earlier in the day.

"Gerald, old thing!" exclaimed Rollo, after a brief exchange of
their experiences, "we've got to get clear of this craft. If we
don't, before very long we stand a hundred to one chance of being
sent to Davy Jones's locker. The skipper gave me the impression that
he's a hard case. I believe he'd sink her with all hands rather than
surrender."

"From what I know of him, he is a hard case," agreed the Sub. "But
the question is, how can we part company with this vessel? I'd
attempt it like a shot if there were a ghost of a chance. The hands
seem to be up to their job. They'll keep a keen eye on us, I fancy.
Our only hope, I think, is to enlist the sympathies of some of the
men. We'll have to sound them carefully. No doubt we'll find that
one or two are fed-up already, and would do almost anything to save
their precious necks."

"You mean to say we might be able to bribe them?"

"Hardly," replied Broadmayne. "They seem to be coining money on this
game. I believe there's a share-out coming off very soon. No, it
won't be the lure of financial reward. We'll have to play on their
feelings a bit."

The thrilling notes of the bo'sun's pipe brought all hands to the
waist. A partial division of the spoil was about to take place.

The crew fell in according to their respective watches. The gunner
and the bo'sun were standing on either side of a small sack of gold
coins placed upon an upturned cask. A short distance away stood
Captain Cain, with Pengelly at his elbow with a book in his hand.

"My lads!" began the pirate captain, "we have now made a rough
calculation of the value of the loot from the German hooker. Of
course, when the stuff is disposed of ashore, it may be of
considerable more value than we have estimated. On the other hand,
it may be less. Roughly, the share for each man before the mast is
one hundred and ten pounds for this day's work."

He paused. A rousing cheer greeted the announcement. Hitherto the
crew had to be content with promises. Now the sight of the bulging
sack indicated that they believed in the old adage, "A bird in the
hand is worth two in the bush."

Captain Cain held up his hand. Instantly the boisterous cheering
ceased.

"As your captain," he continued, "I naturally have your welfare at
heart. Here is the money. I would point out the disadvantages of
keeping such an amount on board. Some of you might: be tempted to
risk the loss of their shares at cards. What you do in the fo'c'sle
during your watch below is no affair of mine, but I should be sorry
to learn that any man has had the ill-luck to lose his
wealth--hard-earned or otherwise. Therefore, I would suggest that,
should any one wish to place his share in a place of absolute
safety, I will be responsible for its keeping. In other words, I am
sending the booty back to England in the _Fairy_. All money entrusted
to me will be judiciously invested, and a receipt given for the
same. On the other hand, any one who wishes to hold his share can do
so.... Mr. Barnard, call the roll!"

The bo's'un began his task. As each man's name was called, he
stepped forward to a chalk-line drawn on the deck. Here he stated
what he wanted--either the actual coin or a receipt for the same. In
the former case, Marchant, the gunner, counted out the coins and
handed them to the man. In the latter, Pengelly wrote out a receipt.

About a dozen men took the cash. Of the remainder, a few allotted
their share, receiving Pengelly's form of acknowledgment; the others
compromised by drawing a few pounds on account and leaving the
balance with the captain.

All this was done in full view of Broadmayne and Vyse. The captain
knew they were looking on. Perhaps he hoped that the sight of so
much money might make the two men under detention alter their minds
about signing-on.

The muster was about to be dismissed, when one of the men stepped
forward.

"Well?" inquired Captain Cain laconically.

"Us of the fo'c'sle wants to know what's to be our attitude to'ards
those blokes we picked up, sir," said the man. "Seem' as 'ow they
messes an' berths for'ard, 'ow are we to treat 'em? Are they
with us as part of the crew, sir?"

"What are you driving at, Matthews?" asked the captain.

The man hesitated.

"'Tes like this, sir," he continued, after a pause. "If they ain't
hands, then why are they berthed along o' we? If they are, it ain't
fair on the rest of us that they don't take part in the routine of
the ship--slackin' about while we are a-workin' 'ard."

It was then that Captain Cain made a serious mistake. Instead of
"ticking the man off" for attempting to interfere with the captain's
plans--a grave breach of discipline--he temporised with the
delegate.

"The matter will receive my attention, Matthews," he replied.

"Very good, sir," rejoined the man.

He saluted, turned and went back to the others. His comrades saw
what the pirate captain could not--a self-satisfied look upon the
man's face at the thought that he had scored off the owner.

"Pipe down!" ordered Captain Cain.

A minute or so later, he beckoned to his captives. The Sub and his
companion descended the poop ladder and approached the pirate
skipper.

"I can't have idlers on board this craft," said Captain Cain
abruptly. "From now you will form part of the starboard watch, and
stand your tricks like the rest of the hands. Understand that?"

"Very good," replied the Sub coldly. "In the circumstances, we have
no option. We are willing, under compulsion, to do our part towards
working the ship, but in no case will we bear a hand at any work of
piracy."

"We'll see about that," retorted Captain Cain, with a sneering
laugh. "Now, go and report to Mr. Barnard, the bo'sun. Tell him
you're placed in the starboard watch."

Without replying, the two chums turned and went to carry out the
captain's orders. Purposely they omitted the salute. They expected
to be recalled and made to give it; but Captain Cain feigned to take
no notice of the omission.

"I'll break their spirits yet!" he mused.

But Broadmayne and Vyse thought otherwise.



CHAPTER IX

A DASH FOR LIBERTY


JUST before sunset the _Alerte_ entered the Chenal de Four, a
dangerous and intricate passage between Ushant and the Brittany
coast. Not only does the water on either side of the deep channel
teem with jagged rocks--many of them submerged at various states of
the tide--but both flood and ebb set at from six to seven knots,
sometimes obliquely across the narrow passage. To complicate matters
further, the rise and fall of the tide is twenty-four feet at
springs and eighteen feet at neaps.

By taking advantage of certain states of the tides, a vessel bound
for Brest and the Biscayan ports from the English Channel could save
a long detour outside of Ushant by making use of the Four Passage,
but, in any case, the utmost caution is necessary. Strangers are, in
fact, warned that to attempt this channel without a pilot is
entailing great risk.

To Captain Cain this hazardous locality presented no terrors. Many a
time during his naval career he had taken submarines between Brest
and Portsmouth, and had lurked in the Chenal de Four waiting to turn
the tables on the U-boats that preyed on the shipping converging
upon Ushant. Now he was going to put the knowledge that he had
gained legitimately to a perfectly illegal use.

"Any sign of the _Fairy_, Mr. Pengelly?" he inquired.

"No sir."

"All right. I'll carry on. Quartermaster, keep those two towers in
line--S. 5 E. is the course. Mr. Pengelly, see that the anchor is
clear and fifty fathoms cable ranged on deck ready to let go."

The sun set in a vivid red sky. The lights of Kermorvan and St.
Matthieu towers sent out their guiding beams. In a couple of hours
the moon would rise.

Still the _Alerte_ held on. Presently the lookout reported a sail on
the starboard bow. Against the still strong afterglow in the western
sky the intervening stretch of water appeared to be studded with
rocky pinnacles.

"That's the _Fairy_," declared Captain Cain to Pengelly, who had
rejoined him on the bridge. "She's brought up in four fathoms off
Beniguet Island. No, we won't send out recognition signals....
Hard-a-port, Quartermaster.... Meet her!... At that!"

The _Alerte_, her speed reduced to five knots, appeared to be heading
straight for a saw-like reef. Another alteration of helm and she
slipped past within half a cable's length of this ridge of rocks,
eeled her way between two half-tide rocks and settled down on a
course S.S.W.

"Stand by!" shouted Captain Cain, ringing for the propellers to be
declutched.

Gradually the _Alerte_ lost way. A hoarse order from the bridge was
answered by the rattle of cable heaving through the hawsepipe.
Snubbing gently at the tautened cable, the pirate submarine swung
round head to tide within two hundred yards of the Falmouth lugger
owned by the redoubtable Cap'n Silas Porthoustoc.

The _Fairy_ had a riding-light on her forestay, but no hail came from
her deck. The _Alerte_, having extinguished her navigation lamps,
hoisted her anchor-light. To any observant Breton fisherman there
was nothing to excite suspicion. Small craft bringing up to avoid a
foul tide were fairly common objects in the vicinity of the Chenal
du Four.

Since Broadmayne's and Vyse's "promotion" to the starboard watch,
the chums had spent much of their time on deck. Their new messmates,
now that they recognised them as such, were apt to be either
patronising or rudely inquisitive. They looked upon the two chums'
predicament--being forced to work without payment--as a huge joke,
especially as Rollo and the Sub were obviously men of a different
social standing. Hence it was not surprising that the late crew of
the _Ibex_ kept to themselves as much as possible.

The Sub knew roughly the position of the _Alerte_. Although he had
never before been through the Four Passage, he realised from his
previous knowledge of Ushant Light that the anchorage was between
some of the islands off the westernmost part of the Brittany coast.

"Wonder what that vessel is?" he remarked, pointing to the _Fairy's_
riding-light. "If she's a Breton fishing craft, we might swim off to
her."

"Not in this tideway," objected Vyse, for the water was hissing and
seething past the side of the _Alerte_. "We might when the tide eases
off. It's bound to just before high water. 'Sides, the moon will be
up soon."

They waited and watched, conversing in low tones. The _Alerte's_ deck
was practically deserted. There was a look-out man on the fo'c'sle.
Occasionally some of the hands would emerge from the close
atmosphere of the crew's quarters for a breath of fresh air. But no
one seemed to take the slightest notice of the two chums.

Presently the moon rose behind the gaunt Brittany hills--a huge red
disc, that soon appeared to diminish in size and assume a vivid
yellowish hue. It was now one bell and the first watch.

"That's not a Frenchman," declared the Sub, as the slanting
moonbeams fell athwart the bluff outlines of the Penzance boat.
"She's a West-country lugger, I'll swear. Wonder what she's doing
here?

"Perhaps her skipper's a pal of the pirate captain," suggested Vyse.

"Not likely," objected Broadmayne. "They didn't communicate with
each other when we came in. I was looking out for that. 'Sides, it's
hardly feasible that a sailing lugger, if she were acting as tender,
would show up within a few miles of the great French naval port of
Brest. It would be far safer to get in touch fifty miles from land."

"That's so," agreed Vyse. "And that brings us back to our original
proposition. How's this for a scheme. The lugger's now almost dead
astern of us. The tide's easing a bit. The _Alerte's_ look-out is
for'ard, consequently he can't see what's goin' on aft. We can lower
ourselves over the stern, swim off to the lugger and get aboard by
her cable, if there's nothing better. We'll warn her master of the
undesirable nature of the _Alerte_ and offer him a hundred quid if
he'll weigh at once and give us a passage to England."

"Then the sooner the better," said the Sub briskly. "It will be
another hour and a half before the look-out is relieved. If he
misses us, he'll probably think we've gone below. His relief will
know we're not."

Their preparations were quickly and silently made. They sacrificed
their footgear. Broadmayne took off his black oilskin, rolled it
neatly and stowed it away under the platform of the sounding machine
aft.

The next step was to drop the after-fall of one of the quarter-boats
overboard. Had the _Alerte_ been a genuine tramp steamer the fugitives
would have to run the risk of being seen through the cabin scuttles,
but her cabins being within the hull of the submarine, were
artificially lighted.

Broadmayne gave a swift, comprehensive look for'ard. The look-out
man was still in the fo'c'sle. He was resting one leg on the low
bulwark, and was gazing stolidly in the direction of St. Matthieu
lighthouse. Evidently he considered his job a merely formal one, and
was making the best of his trick by indulging in fanciful
speculations of what he would do with his rapidly increasing wealth.

Giving his companion a reassuring nod, the Sub cautiously slid over
the rail, gripped the rope and lowered himself slowly.

"Ugh!" he mused. "Feet first; rotten way to take the water. I'll bet
it's beastly cold."

But to his surprise the sea was fairly warm. It made him shiver when
the water rose above his ankles and knees, but directly he was
immersed to his neck he felt no further discomfort.

It was true that the hot tide had slackened. It had decreased from
six to about three knots, or a rate equal to that of a brisk walk.
Still hanging on to the rope, he felt himself being swept aft until
his feet were almost showing above the surface.

He dare not let go until Vyse was almost at the water's edge,
otherwise he would be swept far to lee'ard before his chum was ready
to cast himself off. Keeping together for mutual encouragement was
part of the prearranged plan.

Down came Vyse, hand over hand. The two chums were now up to their
necks and still hanging on to the rope. Both realised that if they
were swept past the lugger by some not unusual freak of the tidal
current, they were as good as lost.

"Ready?" whispered Broadmayne. "Breast stroke; don't speak."

They released their hold and struck out. The towering hull of the
_Alerte_ seemed to be moving with great rapidity. Almost before they
realised it, they were clear of the shadow of the poop and were
swimming strongly in the moonlit sea.

Now they could clearly discern the lugger as she strained and tugged
at her tautened cable. The water was frothing against her stem-band.
But for the cable, it looked as if she were forging ahead under
power. Every now and again she would sheer madly, so that at one
time the swimmers were heading straight for her; at another--it
looked as if they would be swept half a dozen yards away from her.

By good luck, Broadmayne grasped the cable. With a jerk that
well-nigh wrenched him away, his body swung round in the fierce
current. The next instant, Vyse secured a hold.

Then the lugger commenced to sheer again. The cable dipped, dragging
both men below the surface. Not daring to let go, they hung on,
holding their breath until the iron chain tautened again, lifting
them both waist high out of the water.

"You go first," gurgled the Sub. It was a hazardous business,
clambering up on the underside of a vibrating chain at an angle of
about forty-five degrees. Although it was not far to go, the
difficulty increased as Vyse approached the vessel's bows. There was
a danger of being nipped between the cable and the small, iron-shod
hawsepipe, with the additional possibility of his arm being jammed
between the chain and the lugger's stem-head.

Keeping clear of these dangers, Vyse hung on, looking for a means of
getting in over the bows. Suddenly he caught sight of a stout piece
of line by which the chain bobstay had been triced up to prevent it
being chafed by the cable. It might hold--it might not. At any rate,
he decided, if it did carry away, he could make a grab at the
bobstay.

Desperately, Rollo made the attempt. The rope gave slightly as he
transferred his weight to it. The next instant he had thrown one leg
over the massive bowsprit. It was then a fairly simple matter to
haul himself up and across the heavy spar.

By this time, Broadmayne was attempting the ascent; water poured
from his saturated clothing as he drew himself clear. He was
breathing heavily, but the grinding of the cable and the rush of the
tide completely drowned his laboured gasps. With less caution than
his chum had shown, he allowed the knuckles of his right hand to be
barked by the surge of the chain. Had it not been for Vyse's prompt
assistance, the Sub must have relinquished his hold.

For quite five minutes the two men crouched on the lugger's
fore-deck, too exhausted to move. There was no one of the crew on
deck. A faint gleam was thrown obliquely from the half-closed
fore-peak hatchway. Aft, the fluted glass skylight over the
skipper's cabin was illuminated from within.

"Come aft," whispered Broadmayne.

In stockinged feet, they crept cautiously past the huge
old-fashioned windlass, made their way along the narrow space
between the tarpaulined hatch covers, over the hold, and gained the
small aperture leading to the cabin.

The Sub knocked softly upon the door.

"That be you, Garge?" demanded a deep, rolling voice. "Come in."

Accepting the invitation given to the absent "Garge," whoever he
might be, Broadmayne opened the door. Had it not been for the voice,
the Sub would have formed a first impression that the cabin was
untenanted.

Under the skylight hung a swinging lamp, with a polished brass
deflector. Immediately under the lamp was a table that at one time
had been polished mahogany. Now it was scratched, tarnished and
blackened, the captain evidently being in the habit of knocking out
the glowing embers of his pipe upon the table.

At the after end of the cabin was a long bookcase above a settee. On
either side were seats with lockers under, while above the seats
were cavernous recesses with large sliding doors.

One of the latter was partly open, revealing a hairy-faced man lying
fully dressed on a bunk, with a heap of blankets covering him from
his feet to the point of his chin. Apparently he was still wanting
additional warmth, for a coal fire blazed in a brass-lined
fireplace--the skylight was shut, and, until Broadmayne opened it,
also the door.

Cap'n Silas Porthoustoc's astonishment at the sight of two saturated
strangers was quite equal to that of the Sub and his companion, when
they caught a partial view of the old man "stewing" in the hot and
unpleasantly close air.

"Who are ye, an' what you'm wantin'?" inquired Cap'n Silas,
embellishing his inquiry with half a dozen totally different
adjectives.

"It's all right, Captain," replied Broadmayne soothingly, "we've
just swum off from the vessel brought up ahead of you."

"Desarters, eh?"

"Sort of," admitted the Sub.

"An' you'm thinkin' the _Fairy_ is a nursery for cut-an'-run
sailormen?" rejoined Captain Porthoustoc. "You'm come tu wrong ship,
you'm have. Best swim back along 'fore there's trouble."

"Look here, Captain," began Broadmayne firmly.

Before he could say more, the skipper of the _Fairy_ thrust back the
sliding-door of his bunk and rolled out, bringing with him an
avalanche of blankets, a heavy pilot coat, and an oilskin.

"Wot's this?" he demanded. "Threatenin' me in my own cabin, aboard
my very own ship?"

"Not at all, Captain," said the Sub hurriedly. "We want your
assistance. We'll pay you well."

"Pay me well!" echoed Captain Silas scornfully. "Can show the colour
of your money, belike?"

"We'll give you a hundred pounds if you'll put us ashore anywhere in
England," said Broadmayne. "Possibly the Admiralty will pay you
considerably more. The vessel we were on is a pirate."

"'Slong's she don't do aught to we, I'm content," replied Captain
Silas. "Howsomever, a hundred pun' is worth a-pickin' up. But if she
be a pirate, as you say, what happens if so be she sends aboard us
to look for ye?"

"If you up-anchor and get under way at once she'll be none the
wiser," suggested the Sub. "If you think she'll chase you across the
Channel, there's no reason why you shouldn't run for Brest. You'll
get your money just the same."

"Can't start afore the tide sets to south'ard," objected Captain
Silas. "But I'll tell you what: I'll stow you away. You can lay your
life on it, you'll not be found. A hundred, you said?"

The Sub reiterated his promise.

Without another word the skipper of the _Fairy_ kicked aside a narrow
strip of coco-matting, fumbled at a small circular hole in one of
the floorboards, and at length raised a double-width plank about
eighteen inches square.

The light of the cabin lamp revealed a cavernous space, with sloping
sides and massive oaken timbers. Floor there was none, the narrow
space above the kelson being packed with rusty iron bars. A cold and
evil-smelling draught ascended, while with every roll of the lugger
the bilge water sluiced and gurgled over the iron ballast.

"Our clothes are wringing wet," observed Vyse, stating what was an
obvious fact, for they were standing in puddles, while the heat of
the closed-down cabin caused the wet material to emit a regular haze
of vapour.

"Off wi' 'em, then," said Cap'n Silas shortly. "I'll hide 'em.
Blanket a-piece will serve till they'm dry."

The two chums were in the final stages of disrobing when one of the
hands tapped on the skylight.

"She be hailin' us to come alongside, Cap'n," he announced.

"Pretty kettle o' fish you've made," he exclaimed. "Pirate, you say
she be. Well, 'tain't no use us kickin'. We'll drop alongside of
'er, an' they can search till them's tired. They'll never find you.
Down you go. Keep clear of yon propeller shaft."

Gingerly the chums gathered the loaned blankets about them,
toga-wise, and dropped down upon the ballast. The trap-door was
replaced and the coco-matting relaid. In utter darkness the
fugitives crouched, listening to captain stamping about before going
on deck.

Soon the _Fairy's_ motor started, but the shaft gave no sounds to
indicate that it was revolving. Then came the clank of the pawls of
the windlass, as the cable came home, link by link. The gentle purr
of the engines increased to a loud, pulsating roar. The clutch was
engaged, the propeller shaft began to revolve--perilously close to
Vyse's feet it sounded--and the lugger began to forge ahead.

She had not been under way for more than three minutes when the
motor stopped and her stout hull quivered as she bumped alongside
the _Alerte_.

"Now what's going to happen?" thought Broadmayne. "The blighters are
coming on board."

There was a terrific din on deck. Men were stamping and running
about, heavy weights were dumped down, the hatch-covers over the
hold were thrown back.

The Sub could hear men's voices as they shouted to each other, but
the motor roar intervening between them and the fugitives prevented
the Sub hearing what they were saying.

"They're making a pretty strict search," whispered Vyse.

"'Ssh!" cautioned his companion. "There's some one in the cabin.
It's Pengelly, by Jove!"

"All in small packages... easily got ashore ... he told you to do
that? Look here, Silas, you'd better not... the cave behind your
kitchen... we'll arrange all that later... part brass rags within a
fortnight... it'll pay you far better... then that's a deal?"

The Sub broke out in a gentle perspiration. From the scraps of
conversation he had overheard, there could be but one explanation
forthcoming. Pengelly and the master of the lugger were plotting
--against whom? Captain Cain, without a doubt. That was interesting.
But the disconcerting part was: what was the skipper of the _Fairy's_
attitude towards the two men hiding in the bilge? Would it pay him
better to give them up, or to keep faith with them and so gain the
promised hundred pounds?

"Mr. Pengelly!" shouted a voice, which Broadmayne recognised as that
of Captain Cain.

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied the second in command.

The fugitives heard the sound of Pengelly's boots upon the ladder
leading on deck. The _Fairy's_ skipper followed.

"The old sinner," whispered Vyse. "I thought he was going to betray
us."

"I don't think so," replied the Sub. "The promise of a hundred
pounds is our sheet-anchor. By Jove! I can see some interesting
developments before very long."

"What developments?" inquired the other in a low tone.

Before Broadmayne could reply--it was quite safe to maintain a
cautious conversation, since the uproar on deck would deaden every
sound below--a minute shaft of yellow light played upon the Sub's
hand. He knew what that meant. The coco-matting had been removed,
thus allowing the lamplight to enter the thumbhole in the covering
to their place of concealment.

The next instant the trap hatch was thrown wide open. Standing close
to the opening was Captain Cain, a revolver in his hand and a
sardonic grin on his face. Behind him were four of the _Alerte's_
crew. Silas Porthoustoc, chuckling audibly, was stationed in the
narrow doorway, while over his shoulders appeared the grinning faces
of Pengelly and Barnard the boatswain.

"Out of the frying-pan, eh?" exclaimed Captain Cain mockingly. "You
two have vastly underestimated the intelligence of the _Alerte's_
ship's company. I'll deal faithfully with you for deserting, my
lads. Now, out you come."

Dejected and humiliated, Broadmayne and his companion emerged from
the loathsome place of concealment. Their clothes had vanished. Clad
in nothing but Cap'n Silas's blankets, they beat an ignominious
retreat, running the gauntlet of a fire of rude chaff from the
_Alerte's_ crew as they hurriedly went below to their berths. In the
eyes of the rest of the ship's company they were nothing more or
less than skulkers, who took every opportunity of dodging their
share of work. And as such they had no sympathy from the piratical
crew of the _Alerte_.



CHAPTER X

BRUTE STRENGTH


BROADMAYNE and Vyse had not been more than five minutes in their
bunks in the otherwise deserted crew's quarters, when the bo'sun
entered, storming and raging.

"Skulking again!" he shouted. "Here, you son of a horse-marine, show
a leg! And you, you limb of Satan, it's the like o' you as gets the
likes o' me into trouble. On deck with you, an' if you don't work
like blue blazes, there'll be trouble."

It was useless to refuse. Mildly, Vyse protested that their clothes
had been taken away and that having to hold a blanket round one is
apt to hamper a person's activities.

"Quite so," agreed Mr. Barnard, with a coarse laugh. "'Bout time you
did go into proper uniform."

He went to the doorway.

"Matthews!" he shouted. "Get the key of the slop-chest and rig these
skulking hounds out.... Give you five minutes to fall in in the rig
of the day," he added, "or, by smoke! you won't get even bread and
water for the next twenty-four hours."

Well within the stipulated time the two chums went on deck, each
dressed in rubber-boots, blue jersey and canvas jumper and trousers.

"Look lively there!" shouted the bosun. "Nip down the hold and bear
a hand."

The hold was almost empty. In one corner was a pile of iron-bound
boxes and a number of small sacks, the mouths of which were secured
with wire and sealed with discs of sealing-wax.

For some reason the derricks had not been brought into use. Each
packet was handled separately, passed from one man to another, until
by stages it reached the deck. Here a careful tally was made before
the booty was transhipped to the lugger _Fairy_.

"That's the lot, Cap'n Silas," shouted Captain Cain. "You know your
orders. Right-o; carry on and good luck!"

Quickly the dark brown canvas of the _Fairy_ was set. She was riding
head to wind alongside the _Alerte_, held only by a bow-and-stern
warp.

"All ready!" shouted Porthoustoc. "Let go, for'ard."

A slight touch of the lugger's tiller gave her sufficient sheer to
allow the head sails to draw.

"Let go aft!" bawled Silas.

"All gone!" shouted one of the _Alerte's_ crew.

Then like a wraith the lugger drew ahead. There was no doubt about
her speed and handiness. Without having recourse to her motor, she
glided between the rocky pinnacles and was soon lost to sight in the
gathering mist.

"Eighteen hours stand easy, men!" announced Captain Cain. "Clear
away and hands to diving stations. We'll lie here as comfortably as
any one could wish till to-morrow evening. If all goes well, my
lads, we'll rake in another twenty thousand or so before this week's
out."


Within twelve hours from the time when she cast off from alongside
the _Alerte_, the _Fairy_ was creeping past the Cornish coast, with the
little fishing port of Mousehole bearing one point on her port bow,
distant about one mile.

The _Fairy_ had made a quick and uneventful passage, averaging seven
and a half knots. Captain Silas Porthoustoc was almost shaking hands
with himself.

"Lawks!" he muttered. "'Yes a fair ole game. 'Ere's that there Cap'n
Cain, as he calls hisself, a-tellin' me to put the stuff in such an'
such a place until such times as they Lunnon men--fair sharks they
be, drat 'em--come down wi' a moty car an' take it away. Then
there's that Pengelly--I don't like him much, but 'e's a sight
better'n t'other un says 'e, 'Don't 'ee du it, Silas. Hide the stuff
in cave behind your kitchen, an' we'll share the profits.' Well, I
dunno. There's one thing, they girt swells from Lunnon won't handle
the stuff, or my name's not Silas Porthoustoc; nor will that Cap'n
Cain. An' tes more'n likely as 'ow Cap'n Cain an' Mr. Pengelly'll
row an' finish by blowin' holes in one another's skulls. That bein'
so, I collar the lot."

He interrupted his dreams of avarice by glancing skyward. The wind,
hitherto strong, had died away, which was just what he wanted.

"Garge!" he shouted to his mate. "'And that there topsail. We'm not
puttin' into Newlyn--tide don't serve. We'll bring up inside
Clement's Island. She'll be quite all right. If you an' young Bill
want a spell ashore, you can, 'slongs you'm board come eight
t'morrow morn."

Garge jumped at the suggestion. His home was at Newlyn. It was an
easy walk from Mousehole. Young Bill, Garge's nephew, could go with
him.

Accordingly the anchor was let go and the sails loosely stowed. The
_Fairy_, being one of a type common to Mounts Bay, would excite no
curiosity. She was registered as a fishing craft and, in fact, was
one except when Captain Silas had undertakings of a more hazardous
and withal more profitable nature in hand.

The mate hailed a passing boat, and uncle and nephew were readily
given a passage ashore.

Left to himself, Cap'n Silas paced the deck till nightfall,
relieving the monotony by exchanging bantering speech with the crews
of the outward-bound Mousehole fishing fleet, most of whom he knew.

After sunset he hoisted the riding-light, went below, and prepared
and ate supper.

Shortly after midnight Silas went on deck. Everything was quiet.
Softly he brought the dinghy alongside, muffled the rowlocks with
cotton waste and then proceeded to load up with the precious cargo
received from the _Alerte_.

Deeply laden, the dinghy was rowed shorewards, right into a small
cave about a mile to the southward of Mousehole village. Here the
cargo was unloaded and buried in the firm white sand forming
the floor of the cave, at fifty yards from its mouth.

Silas, when he worked, _did_ work. Normally easy-going and of a lazy
disposition, he had the gift of toiling with almost superhuman
energy when circumstances required. And this was one of them.

Ten times during the long December night did the dinghy, well down
in the water, make the double passage between the _Fairy_ and the
cave.

At a quarter to eight, Silas, looking fresh as paint, rowed ashore,
this time to Mousehole to pick up his crew. Two hours later the
_Fairy_ entered Newlyn harbour, where her captain received the
condolences of the fisher-folk on the news that his trip had proved
to be singularly unfortunate. The _Fairy_ had not brought back so much
as a solitary fish.

Captain Silas Porthoustoc, with his tongue in his cheek, went home.

His cottage was situated on the hillside beyond Mousehole. When
ashore, he spent much of his time gardening, and so poor is the
Cornish soil that to grow anything worth having the ground has to be
plentifully manured. Hence, it occasioned no comment when Captain
Silas toiled up the hill with a wheelbarrow full of seaweed, since
seaweed is an excellent fertiliser. Had any one, sufficiently
curious and daring to risk incurring the old skipper's anger,
investigated what was under the seaweed the result would have
surprised them.

In three days, Silas made forty-eight trips with his wheelbarrow. At
the end of that time his garden still required more manure; but
every ounce of the booty from the _Alerte_ was snugly stowed away in
the cave behind the kitchen of Silas Porthoustoc's cottage.


Darkness had fallen when the _Alerte_ rose to the surface, after her
eighteen hours' repose. Before the moon rose the crew had set up the
funnel, masts and rigging, and by nine in the evening she was
shaping a course slightly to the west'ard of the Casquets--that
dangerous and frequently fog-bound ledge of rocks six miles west of
Alderney.

Up to the present, Captain Cain had not put into execution his
threat of punishing Broadmayne and his chum for their "desertion."
For one thing, he meant to make an example of them before the crew,
and consequently waited until the men had had their greatly-wanted
rest; for another, he believed in "prolonging the agony," or
delaying the actual punishment in order that the thought of it would
prey upon the minds of the culprits.

From information obtained through the medium of Captain Silas
Porthoustoc, the pirate skipper of the _Alerte_ knew that a small
French steamer, the _Surcouf_, was leaving St. Malo for the French
islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, lying off Newfoundland. Amongst
other items, she carried the sum of five hundred thousand francs for
the treasury of these Gallic dependencies and a quantity of valuable
silver plate, the private property of one of the chief officials of
St. Pierre.

An hour before sunrise the _Alerte_ stopped her engines. She was then
nine miles W.N.W. of the Casquets. By means of her wireless she
learnt that the _Surcouf_ would not clear St. Malo earlier than ten
o'clock, or two hours before high water.

That interval gave Captain Cain his opportunity to carry out his
threat to the Sub and Vyse.

All hands were mustered on deck. Seized by a couple of the crew,
Rollo Vyse was hauled to the up-turned boat that formed the screen
for the quick-firer. Although boiling with rage, Vyse kept his
feelings under control. Resistance was useless. He might easily fell
his two captors, but he could not hope to defy the whole crew
successfully. At one moment he harboured a scheme to break loose and
hurl himself upon the pirate captain; but to do so, he would have to
run the gauntlet of a dozen active and strongly-built men. So, in
the circumstances, he made up his mind to take his gruelling with as
much fortitude as possible.

Stripped to the waist, Vyse was secured to the boat, his arms over
the keel and his ankles lashed to one of the gunwales.

"All ready, sir," reported the bo'sun, who held a formidable-looking
whip of plaited sennet, terminating in a triple leather thong.

"Give him a dozen to start with, Mr. Barnard," ordered Captain Cain.
"We'll see how he likes that."

The bo'sun drew his fingers caressingly through the thongs, spat
upon his palm after the manner of horny-handed sailor-men, and
prepared to enjoy himself.

"Belay there!" exclaimed the captain. "Where's the other skulker?
Bring him on deck."

"I am here!" announced Broadmayne, stepping forward from the wake of
the conning-tower. "I don't suppose it's any use protesting----"

"It isn't," interrupted Captain Cain grimly.

The crew roared with merriment.

"Then I won't," continued the Sub. "But I will point out that you're
exacting the penalty before trial. We haven't had a chance to defend
ourselves. Now, Captain Cain, I'll make a sporting offer. I don't
suppose you have boxing-gloves on board, so I'll challenge any man
in the ship, yourself included, to a five-round contest with bare
fists. If I win, then my friend goes unpunished. I don't ask for any
favour on my own behalf. In any case, the hands will see a sight
worth seeing."

"Good lad!" shouted one of the crew, and about half a dozen others
applauded. The proposition appealed to their love of sport. They
were ready to witness the comparatively tame spectacle of a man
being flogged; but they vastly preferred to enjoy a fight with the
gloves off.

"Silence!" roared the Captain.

"Garn! Be a sport!" retorted another of the crew brazenly.

Captain Cain strode towards the delinquent. Three steps did he take,
then he stopped abruptly. Perhaps for the first time he realised
that maintaining discipline over a crowd of rogues--rogues of his
own making--was a different matter to that of the old days, when his
authority was backed by the King's Commission. The early successes
of the cruise had turned the men's heads. Between themselves, they
held the creed that "Jack's as good as his master," but as yet they
dare not profess it openly. Nevertheless, Captain Cain felt that he
was playing with a volcano.

"Good idea, my lads!" he exclaimed, without betraying his
suspicions. "Who'll uphold the reputation of the ship to the extent
of five rounds?"

There was a long pause. Several of the men, great, deep-chested
fellows who were good at a rough and tumble, were thinking about
accepting the challenge, but the sight of the tall, well-built
Broadmayne, who in addition had youth on his side, made them think
twice--or more.

"Blime!" ejaculated a bull-necked, bullet-headed fellow, "wot are we
all a-hangin' on to the slack for? 'Ere goes, ole sport. I'll take
you on."

The speaker looked, and undoubtedly was, a tough proposition. An
ex-first-class stoker, he had been employed as a coal-heaver at
Millbay Docks until, after a term of unemployment, he had been
engaged at the Polkyll Creek Shipbreaking Works as a hammerman. In
spite of being nearly forty years of age, he was in the pink of
condition and as hard as nails. Three inches shorter than
Broadmayne, he was certainly heavier and possessed the doubtful
advantage of three inches in girth. The muscles of his arms stood up
like egg-shaped stones under his firm flesh. The sinews of his chest
were like whipcord. But there was one defect that the Sub was quick
to notice. Like many a man of his build, the ex-stoker was
disproportionately weak in the lower limbs.

All the same, Broadmayne realised that he had a heavy task in front
of him. If he were to more than hold his own, he must avoid a direct
blow of the other's shoulder-of-mutton fist, and trust to science
and agility to counteract the fellow's superabundant reserve of
brute force.

"My chum's my second," declared Broadmayne. "Cast him loose."

Somewhat to his surprise the men did so, Captain Cain raising no
objection.

"Whatever happens," whispered the Sub, "you're free for the time.
That's something."

"Be careful," cautioned Vyse. "Try tiring him out."

"I mean to," rejoined Broadmayne.

Already the rough preparations for the contest were complete. The
slightly curving steel deck made a sorry ring, destitute of matting.
Two ropes had been stretched from rail to rail, two others crossing
them at right angles.

Pengelly was appointed referee. Barnard, the bo'sun, acted as
timekeeper, conspicuously displaying a handsome gold watch, lately
the property of the captain of the _Cap Hoorn_. Captain Cain, perched
upon the upturned keel of the quick-firer's screen, watched the
proceedings at a distance of about five yards; but the crew,
squatting on deck, crowded close to the ropes, determined not to
miss the advantage of the front row seats.

The ex-stoker opened the proceedings by making a bull-like rush at
his antagonist. Broadmayne avoided the onslaught with comparative
ease, but could not resist the temptation of delivering a left at
the side of the other's head. Adroitly ducking, the man avoided the
blow and retaliated with a jab intended for the Sub's ribs in the
region of the heart. It was not a vicious blow. The ex-stoker,
thinking he was bound to win, was loath to make an early finish. A
spectacular display to delight his comrades was what he wanted. The
knock-out, he decided, would come in the fifth round--not before.

Nevertheless, the jab jolted Broadmayne severely. It taught him a
lesson. For the rest of the round he was strictly on the defensive,
trusting to footwork to avoid further punishment.

The second round was much on the same principle. It ended with
Broadmayne feeling none the worse, but the ex-stoker somewhat blown
and perspiring freely. The spectators, disappointed at the tameness
of the contest, blew off steam by shouting to their champion to get
to work, and jeering at the Sub's wary and seemingly faint-hearted
tactics.

Goaded by the exhortations of his messmates, the ex-stoker warmed to
his work in the third round. More than once he drove Broadmayne
against the ropes, where only by dexterity did he escape a
disastrous "clinch." Once the Sub got home with a smashing blow
between his antagonist's eyes. It would have knocked out any
ordinary man, but the fellow, beyond recoiling, seemed none the
worse. Quickly he had his revenge by delivering a straight left on
Broadmayne's left cheek, which had the effect of sobering him
completely for the rest of the round.

"Fourth round--seconds out of the ring!"

Broadmayne left his corner feeling far from comfortable. The
ex-stoker, with blood trickling from his nose, grinned disdainfully
at him, then ducking, rushed headlong at his adversary.

For a brief instant the Sub stood his ground, then stepped nimbly
aside. The ex-stoker's massive fist grazed his left ear, the impetus
of the blow throwing the fellow forward. Before he could recover his
balance, Broadmayne, putting every ounce into it, delivered a right,
followed by a hook with his left.

Of what happened after that he had only a hazy idea. Like in a mist
he saw the powerful figure of his antagonist collapse. He appeared
to fall neither forward nor backward, but to subside as his knees
gave way. To Broadmayne it seemed a full minute that this continued;
then, as his knees touched the steel deck the ex-stoker rolled over
on his side.

"One... two... three..."

The man made an effort to rise. Broadmayne stepped forward, ready to
finish the business; but there was no need. Gasping like a stranded
fish, the ex-stoker rolled over again.

"... Eight... nine... ten."

Down and out!

Still a bit dazed, Broadmayne went back to his corner and leant
heavily against his chum. The men were cheering like mad. It dawned
upon him that they were cheering _him_. Tough, desperate ruffians
they might be, but they were sportsmen, members of a race that
produces the best winners and the best losers in the world.

Pengelly congratulated him; so did Barnard, Marchant and most of the
crew. But Captain Cain held aloof. He was furious with himself for
having allowed the contest to take place. His authority had been
wrecked. The crew's attitude towards his captives had undergone a
complete change. He bitterly regretted having taken them on board.

Yet, short of committing murder, he could not get rid of them. Had
he been sure of his crew, he might even have taken that step,
although he was loath to do so. He could not set them ashore: they
knew too much. Besides, he still hoped to rake in a substantial sum
for their ransom.

"Sail on the starboard bow, sir!"

Instantly Captain Cain cast aside his train of disturbing thoughts.
Hurrying to the bridge he levelled his binoculars.

"It's the Frenchman, my lads!" he shouted. "All hands to quarters!
She's ours, my hearties!"



CHAPTER XI

THE FIGHT WITH THE _SURCOUF_


THE _Surcouf_, for such she was, was approaching at twelve knots. She
was a two-funnelled craft of about 3000 tons, painted black with
white upperworks. Occasionally visible between the eddying clouds of
smoke from her funnels fluttered the tricolour from her
ensign-staff; while at her foremost truck was displayed a white
diamond on a red ground, bearing the letters MM.

From the _Alerte's_ bridge, Captain Cain scanned the horizon. There
was no other vessel in sight. Even the upper part of the Casquets
Lighthouse, now twelve miles away, was invisible. Everything seemed
propitious for the coming venture.

Quickly the crew went to stations. All the slackness and resentment
to discipline seemed to have gone by the board. Orders were carried
out with the utmost alacrity, until--"Wot you got there, Charlie?"
demanded one of the hands of a messmate who was making his way aft
with a red, white and black flag under his arm.

"German ensign," replied the other. "Cap'n's orders."

"Blowed if I'll fight under that rag," declared the first speaker
hotly. "I'm an Englishman, I am. Don't mind the French tricolour,
mark you, but the Hun ensign--no, thank you. What say you, chum?"

"I draws the line at that," replied the third man, and his protest
was taken up by several of the others.

"What are you men jawing about?" shouted Mr. Marchant, the gunner.
"Look alive and get that ensign made up ready to break out."

To him the seamen voiced their protest. Even the gunner had his
views upon the matter. He went to the captain and protested, stating
that all hands were against using the German flag.

"Curse them!" exclaimed Captain Cain angrily. "What does that
matter?"

"Matters a lot to them, sir," replied the gunner sturdily.

"All right then," conceded the pirate. "Hoist any flag you jolly
well like. If this business is bungled, don't blame me....
Signalman, stand by to hoist the 'I. D.'... Gunner's mate, if I give
the word to open fire, knock away her foremast. We'll have to stop
her wirelessing at any cost if she won't give in tamely."

Throughout these preparations, Rollo Vyse and the Sub had been
inactive. They point-blank refused to bear a hand, and the crew, now
respecting their principles, let them severely alone. Captain Cain
was quick to notice the change of attitude, and from fear of causing
further discontent affected to be ignorant of the presence of the
two chums.

The _Surcouf_ had approached to within half a mile, when Captain Cain
ordered the __Alerte__ to be turned sixteen points to starboard. This
had the effect of bringing her on a parallel course to that of the
Frenchmen, although the distance between them when abreast was
increased by the diameter of the pirate submarine's turning circle.

Up ran the two-flag hoist, the signal to heave to under penalty of
being fired upon; simultaneously, the six-inch quick-firer was
unmasked and trained upon the _Surcouf_.

The next instant Captain Cain experienced one of the worst surprises
in his life--and he had had a few in his time.

A livid flash leapt from under the _Surcouf's_ bridge, followed almost
immediately by a sharp report. Before any one on board the _Alerte_
realised what had happened a seven-pounder shell burst against the
dummy superstructure amidships, ripped a jagged hole in the funnel
and cut away the mainstay, with the result that the mainmast,
wrenching away the steel tabernacle, crashed heavily upon the poop.

Captain Cain was one of the first to grasp the situation. With all
his faults, he was not lacking in courage when under fire. A sliver
of metal had grazed his forehead, laying open the frontal bone; but
in the excitement he did not heed the burning pain.

"Let 'em have it on the waterline, Gunner's mate," he shouted,
countermanding his previous order to destroy the Frenchman's
wireless gear.

Since he could not effect the capture of the _Surcouf_ without
resistance, he determined to sink her. It meant the loss of the
expected booty, but the _Alerte_ could not run the risk of a prolonged
action. There was little danger of the hull of the submarine being
perforated by the Frenchman's light quick-firer. Even if the outer
skin were holed the inner plating would successfully impede the
progress of the projectile. The dominating factor was the absence of
any repairing base to which the _Alerte_ could retire to heal her
wounds. Whatever damage was received had to be made good on the high
seas, and a badly battered craft would naturally be the object of
interest if not of suspicion.

The gun's crew of the _Alerte's_ quick-firer rose to the occasion. As
fast as the breech-block could be open and snapped to, the powerful
weapon spoke. Empty cartridge-shells clattering on the steel deck
punctuated the sharp bark of the weapon, while shell after shell at
point-blank range crashed into the _Surcouf's_ hull.

But the Frenchman, in spite of the disproportionate odds in the
matter of ordnance, maintained a steady fire, not only from the gun
under the bridge, but from a similar weapon mounted aft. She then
began to go astern, until the _Alerte's_ quick-firer was masked by the
stanchions of her bridge.

By this time the _Surcouf's_ hull was holed in twenty places. A fire
had broken out amidships, smoke was pouring in volumes from a dozen
jagged apertures; yet not a single shell had hit her 'twixt wind and
water.

For nearly a minute the _Alerte_ was raked aft without being able to
reply. Two of the hands rushed towards the poop with the
machine-gun. Before they reached their goal both were struck down by
splinters of shell from a missile that had exploded against one of
the cowls.

"Port eight, Quartermaster!" shouted Captain Cain. "Now, lads, let
her have it!"

But even as the _Alerte_ swung to starboard the _Surcouf_ put her helm
hard over. She was not "out" to sink a pirate, or be sunk herself.
Her duty lay in saving her precious cargo.

A dense pall of smoke hid her from sight. Even Captain Cain was at
first under the impression that she had sunk suddenly; but when the
thick cloud dispersed the _Surcouf_ was sighted steaming away at full
speed in the direction of Guernsey.

Pursuit was useless. To attempt to do so would only bring the pirate
submarine closer to the French coast, and there were in all
probability several torpedo boats at St. Malo. Certainly there were
plenty at Brest and Cherbourg, and by following the _Surcouf_ the
_Alerte_ would run the grave risk of being trapped in the deep bay
between Cape de la Hague and Ushant, where the rocky and uneven
bottom combined with violent currents made it a dangerous place for
a submarine to rest on the bed of the sea.

The situation was a dangerous one. The _Surcouf_ had got away. Already
her wireless was sending out appeals for aid, and warnings that she
had been fired upon by a mysterious craft.

Previously, the French authorities had been sceptical about the
story of the _Cap Hoorn_. That craft had, in accordance to orders from
their captors, proceeded lamely into Cherbourg, only to find that
hostilities had not broken out between France and Germany. There was
the evidence afforded by her shattered rudder-head, but the French
Admiralty officials, beyond disclaiming responsibility, declined to
investigate the damage. Four hours later the _Cap Hoorn_ left
Cherbourg for Hamburg in tow of an ocean-going Dutch tug.

Nevertheless, the incident could not be entirely ignored. Some
vessel had evidently run amok in the Channel. In consequence, the
_Surcouf_ was one of several merchantmen to be hurriedly armed against
the aggressions of the mysterious filibuster. And now the _Surcouf_
had reported the attack, and already the news had been transmitted,
not only to the French naval bases, but to the British Admiralty. On
both sides of the Channel and along the coast of Ireland swift
destroyers were raising steam to engage in hunting down the modern
pirate craft.

"Look alive, my lads!" exclaimed Captain Cain. "If we're to get out
of this with whole necks, we must waste no time. How many
casualties, Mr. Pengelly?"

"Seven, sir: four serious, three light."

"Get 'em below," continued the skipper.

"They are already, sir," replied the second in command. "Parkins and
Brown--the two who tried to get aft with the machine-gun--are the
worst hit. Broadmayne and Vyse carried them below under fire."

"Did they?" commented Captain Cain. Under his breath he muttered,
"And a pity they hadn't lost the number of their mess." [1]

Quickly all available hands got to work. The dummy funnel was
lowered and preparations made to patch the gaping rent and repaint
the "smoke-stack" a different colour. The gashes in the upperworks
were hidden by means of oval metal plates, one inside, one out,
drawn together by a butterfly nut and thread. The tabernacle of the
mainmast was rebedded and a new mainstay prepared ready to set the
"stick" up again.

The while a most anxious and careful watch was kept on the horizon
and on the sky, since it was quite possible that units of the French
aviation service might co-operate in the search.

Three-quarters of an hour after breaking off the engagement with the
_Surcouf_ a liner appeared in sight, bound up-Channel. The _Alerte_
could have avoided her by altering helm, but Captain Cain decided
upon a bold display of bluff. He held on.

"Union Castle liner, Mr. Pengelly," he remarked. "We'll signal her."

"What for?" demanded the astonished Pengelly. "Surely we've had
enough for the present. Besides, she's British."

"Exactly," concurred the pirate skipper. "I'm going to ask her to
take charge of our badly wounded cases. Signalman, hoist the NC."

The letters NC signify "In distress, need immediate assistance," are
never purposely ignored. Corresponding to the wireless S.O.S., they
would divert the largest liner or the humblest tramp.

Promptly the liner altered helm and slowed down. Passengers crowded
to her side to look at the apparently battered tramp.

Standing upon the roof of the charthouse, the _Alerte's_ signalman
began to semaphore.

"_Alerte_ of London, Grimsby for Corunna. Have been fired upon by
vessel, nationality unknown, long. 3° 20' W., lat. 49° 50' N., at
10.30 a.m. to-day. Vessel disappeared steering W.S.W. Please report.
Can you receive four badly wounded men?"

To this the liner replied by semaphore that she would wireless the
information, and that she would send a boat to transfer the _Alerte's_
casualties.

"Many thanks," responded Captain Cain, through the medium of the
semaphore. "No need to lower boat; ours is available."

Captain Cain had already sent below to warn the wounded of his
intentions. They were not sorry to be clear of the pirate submarine.
Their chief anxiety was the thought that they might be deprived of
their share of booty, but the wily captain reassured them on that
point. He knew they would keep their mouths shut--at least for a
period sufficiently long for his purpose. He was also ridding
himself of the trouble of having useless men on board--men who would
have to be fed and given a certain amount of attention and yet be
totally unable to assist in working or fighting the ship.

By refusing the liner's offer to send a boat, Captain Cain had
scored again. Not only did it prevent the mail boat's officer having
a look round, but it obviated the risk of Broadmayne and his
companion making a dash for freedom.

But the signal success of his ruse lay in the fact that the liner
was already wirelessing the account of an imaginary attack upon the
s.s. _Alerte_. The message was picked up by three destroyers from
Cherbourg, which were then in a course that would bring them on the
track of the fugitive. Immediately on receipt of this misleading
report the French destroyers altered helm in the direction the
mythical filibuster was stated to have taken.

The four wounded men were safely transhipped, the operation being
performed under the fire of at least fifty cameras--much to
Pengelly's disgust. He had no immediate ambition to figure in the
limelight of the illustrated press; nor did Captain Cain show any
enthusiasm, when through his binoculars he observed the liner's
passengers taking snapshots of the _Alerte_. He wished he had set up
the mainmast before meeting the liner. Should a photograph of the
_Alerte_ in her present condition reach the French authorities--as it
was fairly certain to do--there would be a lot of explanation to
prove that the _Surcouf's_ assailant and the _Alerte_ were not one and
the same vessel.

"Do you want any further assistance?" inquired the captain of the
liner.

"No, sir," answered Pengelly from the boat alongside. "We're putting
back to Falmouth for repairs. We can do the run under our own
steam."

"Well, good luck to you," was the response, as the _Alerte's_ boat
pushed off.

Then, with a mutual dipping of ensigns, the liner and the tramp
parted--the former to Southampton, the latter anywhere where she
might obtain immunity from the pressing attentions of the swift,
vengeful destroyers.


[1] To lose the number of one's mess, i.e., to die, whether by
violence or through natural causes.



CHAPTER XII

HUNTED


"HERE'S a fine lash-up!" remarked Broadmayne to his chum. "We look
like getting it in the neck. I won't give much for our chances if
our destroyers take up the chase. Cain, or whatever his name is, may
be a very clever and cunning rogue, but he's bitten off more then he
can chew."

"It's rough luck on us," rejoined Vyse. "I don't hanker after the
idea of being sent to Davy Jones's locker by a British destroyer."

"_Pro bono publico_," quoted the Sub. "However, we must make the
best of things and trust to luck. Give me half a chance and my
name's Johnny Walker as far as this hooker is concerned."

The chums were having a breather on deck before turning in. Seven
miles to the nor'west the Wolf Light was sending out its red and
white flashes. The _Alerte_, most of her scars patched, was making
towards the Scillies; but whether Captain Cain intended to use one
of the numerous and secluded channels between the islands as a
hiding-place, was a matter for speculation as far as Broadmayne and
his companion were concerned.

Gerald and Rollo had worked hard during the day. That, no one could
deny. During the action with the _Surcouf_ they had remained passive
spectators, taking refuge behind the conning-tower when the
Frenchman's shells began to rip the _Alerte's_ upper works. But when
they saw the two men with the machine-gun topple headlong, they had
made a simultaneous rush to the assistance of the badly-wounded men.
This they did with a clear conscience. There was nothing in the act
that could be construed as aiding and abetting the pirates in an
unlawful act.

Nor did they hesitate to tend the other wounded members of the crew.
Strangely enough, with all his elaborate preparations, Captain Cain
had either neglected or purposely omitted to provide adequate
surgical and medical stores, and in consequence the less severely
wounded suffered terribly through lack of instruments and
ether-chloroform. It was a painful business both to the wounded men
and their unqualified surgeons to have to extract jagged slivers of
metal without even the application of local anaesthetics. All the
Sub and his companion could do was to cleanse the wounds with warm
water and iodine, and bind them with rough-and-ready bandages that
from an antiseptic point of view would have made a medical man
shudder.

Broadmayne had completed his self-imposed task and was going on
deck, when he encountered his late antagonist.

The ex-stoker's battered features wore a broad grin. Extending a
huge hand, he greeted the Sub with a hearty shake.

"Put it there, chum!" he exclaimed. "I was whacked proper. I'd like
to know where you learnt that punch! An' don't you forget it: if
ever you wants a friend, 'sides the one you've got already, Jim
Soames--Slogger Soames--is the man."

"We're getting on," observed Broadmayne, when he related the
incident to Vyse. "That fellow isn't a bad sort. Wonder how he came
to row on this galley. And several of the crew seem quite well
disposed towards us. We might work it."

"Work what?" asked Rollo.

"Induce some of them to put us ashore," replied the Sub.

"Bit risky," observed his chum. "Not on our account," he added.
"That I don't mind. It would be hard on those fellows if they were
found out. Cain seems a bit of a tartar."

"He may be," admitted Broadmayne. "But he hasn't much of a hold over
his men. And I fancy, although I'm not sure, that Pengelly and he
are parting brass rags. That conversation we overheard--about the
cave behind a kitchen somewhere--struck me as if Cain and his
lieutenant don't hit it off together."

"Well, Cain won't truss us up for a flogging after the licking you
gave Soames," remarked Vyse. "I don't mind admitting I felt a bit on
the scared-stiff side when the bo'sun began playing with his
cat-o'-nine-tails. And Cain hasn't turned us into pirates yet."

"And never will," added the Sub. "Hello, we're altering course.
What's the game now?"

The _Alerte_ was no longer heading towards the Scillies. She had
ported helm and was now making in the direction of Land's End. She
was showing her proper navigation lights and was fussing along just
like any tramp bound up-Channel.

It was a dark and clear night. Although the sky was overcast and no
stars were visible, there was a total absence of fog. It was easy to
pick up the numerous lights marking the "Chops of the Channel." Even
the flash of the Lizard--thirty miles away--could be observed,
although under ordinary conditions its visibility extends over a
radius of twenty-one miles only.

"There'll be a gale before very long," declared the Sub. "The
excessive clearness of the lower atmosphere is a sure sign of that.
The _Alerte_ will have to seek shelter somewhere.... How about
turning-in? I'm dog-tired. It's no use remaining on deck."

To this suggestion Vyse readily agreed. He, too, was very sleepy.
Not since they left Fowey had they had a good night's rest.

On the bridge were Captain Cain, Pengelly, and a couple of hands.
Another was at the wheel, while the customary look-out was stationed
for'ard. All the rest of the crew were below.

Both the captain and his lieutenant were well conversant with this
part of the dangerous Cornish coast. In fact, although there was a
chart on the chart-room table, neither of the two officers took the
trouble to consult it.

Presently Captain Cain turned to one of the hands and ordered him to
lower the masthead lamp. It was the pirate skipper's intention to
take the narrow, intricate channel between Land's End and the
Longships; the absence of the masthead lamp would give the
lighthouse-keeper the impression that the _Alerte_ was a small sailing
craft. Thus he hoped to weather Cape Cornwall and seek refuge on the
bed of St. Ives Bay until the threatening gale had blown itself out.

Giving the dangerous Brisons a wide berth, the _Alerte_ opened out
Pendeen Light. So far so good. It was now close on low water and no
vessel would be entering or leaving St. Ives harbour for the next
four hours.

"Vessel dead ahead, sir!" reported the lookout.

Captain Cain uttered an oath. He wanted to arrive at the desired
position he had chosen for purposes of submersion without meeting
craft of any description. Here were the red, white and green lights
of a steam vessel almost bows on to the _Alerte_.

He ported his helm. The other vessel did likewise. Each now showed
the other her red and white navigation lamps, for on rounding Cape
Cornwall the _Alerte_ had rehoisted hers. There was no danger of
collision, but the two would pass far too close to Captain Cain's
liking.

Suddenly the dazzling beam of a searchlight leapt from the
stranger's bridge. For fifteen seconds--no more--it played upon the
_Alerte_, throwing masts, funnel and upperworks into strong relief.
Then it vanished.

"Destroyer!" exclaimed Pengelly.

"Let's hope she's satisfied," rejoined Captain Cain grimly, as he
blinked at the sudden transition from the brilliant electric light
to the darkness of the night. "No, curse her! She's turning."

A flashing-lamp began its preparatory blinks from the destroyer's
bridge.

"What ship is that?" it inquired.

"Reply __Memnon__ of Bristol," ordered Cain, addressing the signalman,
who with ready presence of mind had fetched the Aldis flashing lamp
from the chart-room.

The destroyer's response was a curt invitation to stop. "I'll send a
boat to examine your papers," added the message.

"By thunder you won't!" muttered Captain Cain, ringing the
engine-room telegraph for "Stop." "All hands below as sharp as
greased lightning," he ordered. "Mr. Pengelly, warn the duty men to
prepare for diving stations. I'll be with you in a brace of shakes."

Both the destroyer and the supposed tramp were losing way; the
former, owing to her heavier displacement and narrow beam, having to
reverse her engines in order to prevent herself overrunning the
_Alerte_.

Captain Cain could hear the squeaking of blocks as the destroyer's
boat was being lowered. He was rather dubious about the step he
proposed taking. He estimated, although he had not taken soundings,
that the _Alerte_ was in eleven fathoms, with a sandy bottom. In the
absence of electrically propelled motors, the submarine had either
to go up or go down. She could not maintain a midway depth, for
although fitted with compensating tanks, these alone, without the
assistance of the horizontal rudders--which were useless unless the
submarine were making way--would fail to keep her at a constant
depth. Should the soundings prove much greater than he expected, the
_Alerte's_ hull might be unable to withstand the enormous pressure of
water. If, on the other hand, the depth were considerably less, then
the _Alerte's_ mastheads would show above the surface, since there was
no time to lower them before submerging.

The creaking of oars announced that the destroyer's boat had pushed
off and was heading for the supposed _Memnon_. Again the dazzling
searchlight was unscreened. There was no time to be lost.

Descending the bridge at breakneck speed, Captain Cain ran to the
after-end of the conning-tower. Here, stowed in an air-tight box,
was the smoke-producing apparatus used in conjunction with the dummy
funnel to give the effect of a vessel with steam, propelled engines.
In the same compartment were several explosive rockets.

Disconnecting the pipe that conveyed the smoke to the base of the
funnel the pirate captain laid the nozzle on the deck. Then, hastily
securing one of the rockets to a stanchion, he ignited the
touchpaper.

The moment the detonator exploded, Captain Cain released the smoke
cloud, descended the hatchway, and closed the water-tight cover.

"Flood ballast tanks!" he shouted.

Three minutes later, the _Alerte_ sank on practically an even keel to
the bed of St. Ives Bay. The depth gauge registered eleven and a
quarter fathoms, which meant that at high tide she would be lying in
eighty-seven feet--sufficient to immerse the trucks of the masts to
a depth of twenty-eight feet.

"That's done them!" exclaimed Captain Cain exultantly to his second
in command.

"Unless they depth-charge us," added Pengelly gloomily.

"They won't--why should they?" rejoined the skipper. "They don't know
but that we blew a hole in the old hooker and sank her for good and
all."

"Perhaps they'll send a diver down to report."

"Not before daylight," declared Cain. "And then, if I am any judge
of the weather, it'll be too choppy for that."

For some minutes every one kept silent. Although the watch below
were almost overwhelmed with curiosity to know what had occurred,
the captain gave strict orders that no conversation was to be
permitted.

He was confident enough: Pengelly was showing signs of nervousness.
Submarine work was not in his line. He was good enough for surface
work--in fact, he was a good seaman--but he lacked the cold,
calculating and resourceful courage of his chief.

"What's that?" he ejaculated, as a dull rasping sound penetrated the
hull of the submarine, "They're sweeping for us."

"Shut up!" exclaimed Captain Cain sternly. The grinding noise
continued for fifteen long-drawn-out seconds. Then it ceased as
abruptly as it had commenced. Shortly afterwards, the muffled thud
of the destroyer's engines were heard, loud at first then gradually
diminishing.

"She's off," declared Captain Cain. "What we heard just now was the
sinker [1] of a mark-buoy. She's probably making for Falmouth for
shelter--or else under the lee of Lundy. They've done us out of a
comfortable berth, Pengelly; we've got to shift."

"Now?" asked Pengelly dubiously.

"Not until an hour before high water," decided the other. "We'll
break surface and drift, using our engines only if absolutely
necessary. With the set of the flood tide we ought to be swept
through the Sound midway between Godrevy Island and the Stones.
There's a minimum of fifty feet at high water."

"How about the lighthouse-keepers?" objected Pengelly. "Ten to one
they've been warned."

"Any more objections?" asked Captain Cain, losing his temper. "Stow
it, man. Why didn't you go in for gardening? That's more in your
line, I think."

With that Captain Cain went to his cabin, and, after warning one of
the men to call him at six bells (3 a.m.), calmly went to sleep.

At the appointed hour the skipper was roused.

Fresh as paint, he began preparations for bringing the _Alerte_ to the
surface.

Absolute caution was essential. The destroyer might not have gone:
she might be anchored in the bay. The atmosphere might be still
clear, the stars might be shining brightly. Until the submarine
broke surface, there were no means of ascertaining what the
above-water conditions were. And even with the periscope extended to
its greatest height, the masts would be well above the surface
before the eye-piece gave any indication of what was in the
vicinity.

At length the _Alerte_, shedding tons of water through the scuppers in
the superstructure, broke surface. Eagerly the captain threw open
the hatch and came on deck. It was raining heavily. There was little
or no wind. A heavy ground swell was setting in from the Atlantic.
All these conditions supported Cain's declaration that there was a
severe storm approaching.

Shouting to the watch on deck to turn out, the captain hurried to
the bridge and took rapid bearings by the standard compass. To the
south-'ard the harbour lights of Hayle bore S. 22 W.; St. Ives red
light, S. 70 W., while Godrevy lighthouse was on a bearing S. 88 E.
Transferring these data to the chart, Cain found the _Alerte's_
position to be favourable for his project--to allow her to drift
through the narrow passage known as the Sound into deeper water
under the lee of an extensive shoal of half-tide rocks known as the
Stones.

A sailor dashed up the bridge-ladder.

"We've brought up a mark-buoy with us, sir," he reported. "What are
we to do with it?"

There was no hesitation in the skipper's reply. In a trice he had
considered and decided upon what was to be done. If the buoy were
thrown overboard, it would serve as a guide to the destroyer's
operations for examining the supposed wreck. If it were not there,
then a vast area of the bay would have to be swept before the naval
officers discovered that the "wreck" was no longer in the bay. The
longer they took to make this discovery, the better the chances of
the _Alerte_ getting safely away.

"Cut the rope and unstrand the ends," he ordered, "then heave the
buoy overboard."

By so doing, it would give the impression that the buoy rope had
parted in rough weather. In all probability the coast watchers would
find the buoy pounding against the rocks off Godrevy Point.

Almost imperceptibly the _Alerte_ continued to drift. Every
half-minute Captain Cain took angles with his sextant, while
Pengelly attended to the compass bearings. Although the shore lights
were visible, it was an impossible matter to distinguish the
outlines of the coast. Conversely, no one ashore--not even the
lightkeepers of Godrevy lighthouse--could discern the black hull of
the _Alerte_ as she was borne with all lights extinguished towards the
gateway to safety. Even at a hundred yards the steady downpour of
rain was sufficient to obliterate her from watching eyes.

Presently, the _Alerte_ entered the red sector of the lower Godrevy
Light. She was now in the danger zone. There was quite a nasty
tide-rip, while the thunder of the breakers across the Stones on one
hand and upon the rock-bound Godrevy Island on the other, were
indications that spelt disaster to any vessel that missed the
passage of the Sound.

It was an anxious time. More than once Captain Cain grasped the
handle of the engine-room telegraph, fearing that the ship was
drifting too close to the breakers. Then with remarkable suddenness
the _Alerte_ passed beyond the warning red sector.

"All clear, Pengelly!" exclaimed the skipper. "We're through. Pass
the word to the hands to lower masts and funnel and make all snug.
Smartly, but with no unnecessary noise. Keep the lead going, there."

In ten minutes the work of snugging down was completed. The
soundings gave a depth of ten fathoms.

Captain Cain descended from the bridge--slowly this time.

"Hands to diving stations!" he ordered.

For the second time that night the buoyancy tanks were flooded. The
_Alerte_, two and a half miles E. by N. of her previous and enforced
resting place, lay snug and sound to await the passing of the
threatening storm.



CHAPTER XIII

A BAFFLED QUEST


LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER RALPH RAXWORTHY, D.S.O., officer commanding
H.M. Destroyer _Windrush_, leant over the after end of the bridge
stanchion-rails to give final instructions to his sub-lieutenant.

"She's the one we want," he shouted, in order to make himself heard
above the hiss of escaping steam. "Mind how you close her. Examine
her papers, and if you find anything of the slightest suspicious
nature, put her under arrest."

"Very good, sir," replied Sub-Lieutenant Allerton, instinctively
patting his revolver-holster before dropping into the waiting boat.
"Shove off for'ard. Give way, lads!"

The boat, with the armed boarding-party, was soon speeding through
the black water in the direction of the supposed _Memnon_, which lay
rolling sluggishly in the full glare of the destroyer's searchlight.

Allerton, too, had his suspicions. Expecting to find a crowd of
curious and perhaps amused seamen peering at the _Windrush's_ boat, he
was considerably puzzled to see only one man on the tramp's bridge
and her deck absolutely deserted.

Even as he looked, a flash, followed by a roar, came from the
_Memnon's_ deck. A cloud of black smoke, its edges tinted with silver
and the rays of the searchlight, rose sullenly in the faint breeze.

For some moments Allerton was undecided what to do. At first, under
the impression that the mysterious vessel had opened fire, he
altered helm in order to prevent the boat masking the destroyer's
reply. Even as he did so, he noticed that the tramp was much lower
in the water.

"The blighters have scuttled her, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "Lay on
your oars, lads. We don't want to be carried down with her."

Without the faintest doubt, the would-be prize was sinking fast.
That was undeniable evidence of her guilt. No law-abiding merchant
vessel would voluntarily destroy herself simply because she was
about to be boarded by a party from a British man-of-war.

With great rapidity the _Memnon_ sank. She did not heel or even roll.
She disappeared amid a smother of foam, throwing out a swell that
tossed the _Windrush's_ boat like a cork. An oval patch of silvery
light from the destroyer's searchlight marked the spot where the
mysterious vessel had plunged to the bed of St. Ives Bay.

"Give way, lads!" ordered Allerton. "We may find some of them in the
ditch."

For a quarter of an hour the boat hovered around the spot. There
were no signs of survivors--not even of débris. A little oil,
floating in iridescent patches, alone marked the place, and even
that was drifting sullenly with the weak tidal current.

At dead slow ahead the _Windrush_ closed her boat. A mark-buoy and
sinker were dropped overboard, the searchlight was switched off and
the boat hoisted up and swung inboard.

"Good enough," declared the lieutenant-commander as his sub gained
the bridge and reported. "We haven't made a capture, worse luck; but
we've done the next best thing. We've scuppered this pirate-johnny,
whoever he may be. Right-o, Sub, carry on, please, while I write out
my report."

The _Windrush_ had that morning left Devonport under orders to patrol
the coast between Hartland and Pendeen Points. Another destroyer was
assigned a beat between Hartland and Worms Head, while a third
cruised between Swansea Bay and Milford Haven. All outward and
homeward bound shipping were to be spoken, and, in the event of any
suspicion, to be boarded and have the papers examined.

This was in execution of a general Admiralty order embracing the
whole of the West and South Coast of England and the South Coast of
Ireland, but it was hardly expected that the mysterious pirate would
be found in the approach to the Bristol Channel.

It was a piece of sheer good luck that had caused the _Windrush_ to
intercept the self-styled _Memnon_. Had the latter been half an hour
or even twenty minutes later in rounding Pendeen Head, the destroyer
would have turned and been on her way back to Hartland.

Two hours later, the Commander-in-Chief at Devonport was awakened by
his secretary.

"They've got her, sir!" exclaimed the latter, brandishing a
signal-pad.

"Got who?" demanded the still drowsy admiral.

"The pirate, sir; a message has just come through from the
_Windrush_."

The Commander-in-Chief took the pad and read:


    "O.C. _Windrush_ to C.-in-C., Devonport. Radio
    No. 445. Have honour to report that at midnight
    _Windrush_ spoke vessel 2 miles W. 6 N. Godrevy
    Light. Vessel reported herself _Memnon_ of Bristol.
    Ordered her to close and sent boat to make examination.
    Before boat could board _Memnon_ sank,
    apparently result of internal explosion. No survivors.
    Have marked wreck. In view of bad weather,
    request permission to return Devonport.--
         R. RAXWORTHY, Lieut.-Commdr."


"That looks like business, sir," remarked the secretary. "I suppose
she is the same craft that held up the _Cap Hoorn_ and got a mauling
from the _Surcouf_?"

"She hasn't lost much time in going round the Land," rejoined the
Commander-in-Chief. "I wonder what in the name of blazes she was
doing over this side? All right, Symington. Transmit the signal to
the Admiralty, please; and reply to _Windrush_. She's to put into
Milford Haven until the weather moderates. We'll send a dockyard tug
and a couple of lighters with a diving party round as soon as
practicable. That's all; good-night."

The Admiralty report was made public at 4.0 p.m. of the same day,
but two hours earlier the London evening papers brought out special
editions with double-headed headlines announcing the destruction of
the pirate vessel that had commenced to play havoc on the French
side of the Channel. Every newspaper brought out a different
account. For the most part, what they lacked in actual detail they
made up for by drawing upon their imagination.

One, very wide of the mark, reported that the pirate had been sunk
off Cherbourg, in action with a French cruiser; another declared
that the filibuster had been rammed and sunk by a British light
cruiser off Beachy Head. A third, that the mysterious vessel had
been driven ashore in Mounts Bay and that the crew had been taken
prisoners and were already on their way to London. A fourth, much
nearer the mark, had contrived to obtain information from St. Ives
to the effect that the destroyer _Windrush_ had sunk the pirate vessel
_Memnon_ off Trevose Head. Not one in half a dozen separate reports
mentioned the important fact that the corsair had sunk herself.

That same afternoon a westerly gale of force ten--or with a velocity
of sixty-five miles an hour--was blowing in the English Channel and
off the north coast of Cornwall. At Tresco, Scilly, the anemometer
even registered one hundred and twenty miles. For three days it blew
with unabated violence, finally veering to the N.N.W., leaving in
its wake a trail of disaster. For nearly a week after, a heavy
tumbling sea was sweeping in from the Atlantic, rendering
investigation of the wreck of the _Memnon_ impracticable.

At length the sea moderated sufficiently to enable the dockyard tug
and the two lighters to leave Plymouth Sound. They had not cleared
the breakwater more than an hour when the Devonport wireless station
received the following startling message:


    "S.S. _Broadstone_ making for Falmouth, towing
    Spanish oil-tanker _Mendez Nunez_, attacked, pillaged
    and disabled by vessel, nationality unknown, in
    Lat. 47° 20' N., long. 9° 15' W."


"Then there must have been a pair of 'em," exclaimed the
Commander-in-Chief.

"Unless the original one got away," suggested his flag-lieutenant.

"What do you mean?" demanded the admiral. "Didn't the _Windrush_
report her sunk?

"Strange things happen at sea, sir," remarked the admiral's
secretary.

"But there are limits," rejoined the Commander-in-Chief. "Well, the
diving-party will get to work early to-morrow if the weather holds.
I'm willing to bet a bottle of '14 Champagne to a Corona Corona that
they'll find the wreck of the _Memnon_ within three working days."

"Done, sir!" replied the secretary promptly. The admiral lost. In
calm weather, divers descended and discovered the sinker of the buoy
dropped by the _Windrush_. A couple of drifters swept a wide area
without encountering any obstruction resembling wreckage. A naval
seaplane assisted in the search, but without success. Reluctantly
the authorities had to admit that the operation was a complete
failure. The sunken _Memnon_ had vanished as completely as if she had
been swallowed up by a fathomless quicksand. But since no quicksand
existed in the neighbourhood of St. Ives Bay, that theory was
knocked on the head. Remained the question: What had happened to
her?



CHAPTER XIV

A BROKEN REED


THROUGHOUT the three days during which the sea was raging furiously
in the grip of the terrific gale, the _Alerte_ remained submerged.
Occasionally the giant seas sweeping over the Stones rocked her ever
so slightly. The noise of shingle carried over the rocky ledge to
wind'ard could be distinctly heard like a continuous roll of distant
thunder, but as far as actual danger went the _Alerte_ was as safe as
if she had been lying at heavy moorings in the most sheltered berth
in Falmouth harbour.

The difficulty of maintaining a constant supply of pure air was
overcome by means of chemicals; so much so, that there was a slight
excess of oxygen that had a peculiarly exhilarating effect upon the
crew. Even the usually morbid and pessimistic Pengelly began by
attempting feeble jokes. He next became boisterous and excitable,
while on the third day even the light-hearted crew looked askance at
him, so erratic was his behaviour.

Several of the hands showed signs of excessive excitability. The
epidemic was spreading. Had the _Alerte_ remained submerged very much
longer, all hands might have gone mad under the influence of
the super-oxygen charged atmosphere.

Fortunately for them, Captain Cain noticed the symptoms. He decided
to break surface and remain with the hatchways open for at least an
hour, even at the risk of the heavy seas pouring inboard.

At two in the morning of the fourth day the _Alerte_ was brought to
the surface. Greatly to her skipper's surprise--for the glass had
risen far too rapidly to prognosticate fine weather--the storm had
blown itself out. Crested waves were surging over the Stones and
thundering upon Godrevy Island, but the pirate submarine was in
comparatively sheltered water, rolling sluggishly to the long
Atlantic swell.

Captain Cain's chief anxiety was now on account of the oil fuel. The
gauges showed that there was only one ton left in the tank. By some
means he must get into communication with Captain Silas Porthoustoc
and arrange for the _Fairy_ to proceed to a rendezvous with a cargo of
liquid fuel.

For the present the _Alerte_ rode to a single anchor, double watches
being set to give the alarm should a vessel be sighted, although the
position of the pirate submarine was well out of the way of traffic,
owing to the proximity of the reef known as the Stones. At a few
seconds' notice the _Alerte_ could submerge. Meanwhile, the hull of
the submarine was being swept by a current of pure, ozone-laden air.

"Mr. Pengelly!" shouted the skipper.

The second in command hurried along the alleyway, performing a
fantastic two-step.

"Pull yourself together, man," exclaimed Captain Cain sternly.
"We're in a bit of a fix."

Pengelly's light-hearted demeanour fell from him like a shedded
garment.

"What is it now, sir?" he inquired anxiously.

"Precious little oil-fuel left," replied the captain. "Look here: do
you know Portreath? What sort of a harbour is it?"

"Not enough water for us," replied Pengelly. "You're surely not
going to take the ship into port?"

"No fear," responded Cain grimly. "But I want to send a boat ashore.
You'd better take her. We must arrange with Porthoustoc to supply us
with oil. While you are ashore, you might get hold of a batch of
newspapers. We don't appear to be getting much information by
wireless."

"There'll be a heavy breaking sea across the mouth of Portreath
harbour," objected Pengelly.

"A chance for you to display your seamanship," added Cain, with grim
humour. "We'll run up along before daybreak and then retrace our
course. People ashore will think we're outward-bound. Pick your
crew. I'll write a letter to Old Silas, giving him instructions."

Just before dawn the _Alerte_ brought St. Agnes' Head broad on the
starboard beam. Then she turned and ran leisurely down the coast,
bringing up off the little harbour of Portreath just as the sun
appeared above the gaunt and rugged Cornish hills.

To the coast-watching station she made a signal announcing herself
as the s.s. _Eldorado_ of Sunderland from Bristol to Whitby, following
up with a request to know whether it was practicable to send a boat
ashore.

Portreath station replied that it could be done, but care was
necessary on account of the disturbed state of the bar.

"Carry on, Mr. Pengelly," ordered the inexorable Captain Cain.

The boat made the harbour safely. Pengelly, on stepping ashore, was
met by one of the Customs men.

"Hello!" remarked the latter. "Rather unusual you coming in here,
isn't it?"

"I have to post important letters," replied Pengelly.

"Lucky you didn't bring up off here a week or so ago," commented the
official. "We'd have to have searched you."

"What for?" asked the _Alerte's_ second in command, with well-feigned
innocence.

"'Cause of that pirate what was knocking about. Well, she's gone,
thank goodness! I wasn't none too keen myself, putting off to a
vessel that might have been manned by cutthroats."

"We heard something about it," remarked Pengelly. "Rumours, of
course. What did happen?"

"She blew herself up over t'other side of Godrevy Island," announced
the man, with a sweep of his hand in the direction of St. Ives Bay.
"Just as the _Windrush_--destroyer, she be--was about to nab her.
They'll be starting salvage operations when the swell settles--maybe
to-morrow."

"That's something to be thankful for," said Pengelly sententiously.
"Not that they'd have got much out of the old _Eldorado_ out yonder.
There are enough risks at sea without the chance of being scuppered
by a bloomin' pirate.... Where's the post office, mate?"

The Customs man gave the required information. Pengelly walked away,
posted Silas Porthoustoc's instructions and purchased a quantity of
provisions and a big budget of newspapers.

He returned to the harbour and found that none of the boat's crew
had deserted. He would not have been greatly surprised if some of
them had made themselves scarce. He himself felt tempted to clear
out, when his feet touched honest Cornish soil. It would be an easy
matter to make his way to Penzance and arrange with Old Silas to
share the plunder. But there were difficulties. He might betray Cain
and obtain King's pardon, but what would happen to the booty then?
Its secret hiding-place would be divulged. He would not be a penny
the better. And, if Cain evaded capture, his--Pengelly's--life would
not be worth a moment's purchase. Possibly, similar fears had
exercised a restraining influence on the boat's crew. Once "in the
swim" it was a difficult matter to escape the whirlpool.

"Better look alive," cautioned the Customs man, looking down from
the lofty quay-side. "There's a nasty sea-fog banking up."

The boat shipped a considerable amount of water in clearing the
harbour, and by the time she ran alongside the _Alerte_ the fog was so
thick that the shore was entirely blotted out.

"Well, what's the news?" demanded Captain Cain.

"Haven't looked, sir," replied Pengelly, tossing the bundle from the
boat to the deck of the _Alerte_. "From what I've heard, they think us
properly scuppered."

The boat was hoisted up and secured. At slow speed the pirate
submarine nosed her way through the fog, intending to make for a
certain secluded "sound" in the Scillies, there to await the arrival
of the _Fairy_ with the oil.

Having given the quartermaster the course, Cain selected a couple of
newspapers and told the bo's'un to pass a number of them for'ard for
the hands not on duty.

One of the newspapers was the _Western Gazette_. This the captain
handed to Pengelly, knowing that the latter would derive interesting
local information from it. The Times Cain retained and figuratively
proceeded to devour with the avidity of a man who has for days been
cut off from all accounts of the world's doings.

"Hello, Pengelly!" he exclaimed, "we're fugitives from justice."

"I know that," rejoined Pengelly, with a show of asperity.

"'Tany rate," resumed Cain, "there's a warrant out for the arrest of
Thomas Trevorrick and Paul Pengelly for fraud in connection with the
Polkyll Shipbreaking Company. We're assumed to have absconded and to
be hiding on the Continent. There's two hundred pounds reward."

Both men smiled grimly at each other. Evidently there was no
connection in the minds of the authorities between Trevorrick and
the pirate Captain Cain.

"And the _Memnon_ is officially reported as being destroyed,"
continued Captain Cain. "The Admiralty state emphatically that she
is the vessel that attacked the _Cap Hoorn_. They weren't far out
there, Pengelly, but listen! This is a gem! 'In consequence of the
destruction of the _Memnon_, all danger to shipping through piratical
action is now considered at an end. Accordingly orders have been
issued to the naval patrols engaged in hunting down the pirate to
return to their respective bases.' Well, that's given us a new lease
of life. Wait till we replenish our fuel tanks and we'll give My
Lords a nasty eye-opener." This time both men laughed boisterously.
Fickle Fortune was treating them with lavish favour.

For some minutes there was silence, each reader deep in his paper.

"By Jove!" suddenly ejaculated Pengelly. "Listen to this, sir: 'An
inquest was held----'"

"Don't want to hear about inquests," interrupted Captain Cain.
"Don't suppose mine will worry me. Why should I trouble about other
people's?"

"You will about this one," persisted Pengelly doggedly. "It's Silas
Porthoustoc. He was found dead in his garden. Heart disease, they
say. The inquest was held in the Keigwin Arms last Monday."

"Confound the fellow!" almost shouted Captain Cain angrily. "What
possessed him to shuffle off this mortal coil at this time above all
others, and to leave us in the lurch? Ten thousand thunders! Think
of the oil-fuel we'll have to whistle for!"

"And I've only just posted his orders," added Pengelly. "What did
you tell him? Will that give us away?"

"No, it won't," declared the skipper. "It will convey nothing to
outsiders. 'Scilly blooms' and 'Jersey potatoes' won't give them
a clue, Trust me for that. All the same, it's infernally annoying."

"It is," agreed Pengelly.

Both men relapsed into silence.

"I hope Porthoustoc got that Abrahams fellow down from London to
dispose of the booty before he turned up his toes?" mused Cain.

"Wonder if Silas hid the stuff where I told him to?" soliloquised
Pengelly. "Well, it's all or nothing as far as I am concerned."



CHAPTER XV

THE OIL-TANKER


FOR two hours more the _Alerte_ held on a westerly course through a
blinding fog before Captain Cain resolved upon a plan of action.
Generally capable of forming a swift and workable decision, he was
now beset with so many perplexities that for once at least his ready
resource failed him.

Against one outstanding asset--the Admiralty declaration that the
patrolling destroyers had been withdrawn--was a more than
counterbalancing debit. Cap'n Silas Porthoustoc's sudden demise had
not only deprived the pirate of a necessary confederate--it had
handicapped him severely in the important matter of refilling the
almost empty fuel tanks.

It was impossible for the _Alerte_ to enter any commercial harbour and
obtain oil from the storage tanks without certain detection. Equally
impossible was it for the same reason to receive supplies from an
oil-tanker on the high seas, unless the pirate resorted to force.
British vessels he had resolved to leave severely alone. There were
Yankee tankers to be met with, but Captain Cain was chary in that
respect. Although he had no love for citizens of "the greatest
republic on earth," he had a wholesome regard for the physical and
mental powers of the officers and crews of ships flying the Stars
and Stripes. Men of the Latin races were excitable and easily
intimidated, according to his estimation. A German could be bluffed,
provided he could be made to realise the argument of brute force.
But a Yankee strongly resembled a Briton, both in courage, resource
and stubbornness.

No, United States tankers were not to be meddled with, he decided.
Apparently the only course open to him was to operate on the French
side of the Channel upon any likely craft using liquid fuel----and
during the last few years King Coal was being seriously threatened
by King Oil in the mercantile fleet, both of the Old and New Worlds.

Porthoustoc's death had affected the situation in another way. The
_Alerte_ had no means of sending her unlawful booty to England. In
future she must be her own store-carrier, unless she found a
secluded and safe base of operations. It was too hazardous an
enterprise to attempt to approach any of the little frequented
Cornish coves under cover of night and land the spoil by means of
boats. Besides, the moment the news reached the Admiralty that the
same or another pirate ship was "out," all the previous destroyer
activities would be resumed with increasing zest. It was more than
likely that orders would be given to depth-charge the pirate vessel
if she sank herself under similar circumstances to that of the
_Memnon_ in St. Ives Bay. Captain Cain had a wholesome respect for the
British Navy and its methods in dealing with submarine operations.

The only solution Captain Cain could find, lay in deserting home
waters for less frequented seas. There were safe hiding-places off
the African coast, ideal spots for burying the pirate's booty, until
such times as the master villain could remove the spoil and cheat
his partners in crime. But there again cropped up the baffling
problem. Without sufficient oil-fuel, how was the _Alerte_ to cover
the sixteen hundred odd miles between Land's End and the African
coast? Was it possible to intercept the first oil-burning vessel
they met, British or otherwise, and help themselves to the precious
commodity? Would a monetary payment in the case of a vessel flying
the red ensign smooth over matters and at the same time absolve Cain
from his promise to his crew and also remove their scruples?

Picking up the copy of the Times, Captain Cain looked through the
list of shipping as reported by Lloyds. Suddenly he gave a chuckle
of satisfaction. Amongst the names appeared that of the s.s. _Mendez
Nunez_, owned by the Bilboa Oil Company, which left Cadiz on the 9th
instant bound for Swansea.

Hurrying to the chart-room, Captain Cain found and unrolled a chart
of the west coast of Europe from Finisterre to Cape Clear. Assuming
the speed of the Spanish tanker to be eleven knots, he arrived at
the conclusion that the _Alerte_ ought to fall in with her within
twenty-four hours at about fifty miles S.S.W. of the Bishop Rock.

It was a daring proposition. Apart from the risk of missing the
Spanish tanker altogether, the position given was not far from the
junction of the traffic routes for shipping to and from the Straits
and the West Coast of Africa bound to and from the English and
Bristol Channel ports, the Bishop Light being the first one sighted
by homeward-bound vessels approaching Land's End. In the event of
the _Mendez Nunez_ being sighted, could the capture be effected
without the risk of other vessels coming to the Spaniard's aid?

Leaving Pengelly in charge of the bridge, Captain Cain called the
gunner and the bo'sun to his cabin and put the case before them. He
meant to ignore Pengelly altogether in the matter. Instinctively he
knew that his second in command would strongly protest against the
idea of an African base. Pengelly was all right up to a certain
point in home waters, but not once but many times had he expressed
his fears about proceeding far from his native Cornwall.

Both Barnard and Marchant fell in with the captain's suggestion.
Already had they come to the conclusion that piracy, even with the
assistance of a submarine craft, was too risky a game to be
prosecuted for any length of time in British and French waters.

"You see the idea?" said Cain. "A couple of good hauls of shipping
homeward-bound from Senegal, the Congo, and other French and Belgian
colonies, and our fortunes are made. We'll cache the booty, make our
way home, charter a vessel all above-board, recover the stuff, and
there you are. It's as simple as A B C. Our first business is with
the Spanish tanker. Pass the word for'ard, Mr. Barnard. There's a
double share to the first man who sights the _Mendez Nunez_."

Ten miles to the west of the Scillies, the _Alerte_ ran out of the
bank of fog into a clear expanse of water under a cloudless sky. The
sea had moderated considerably, although there was a long, sullen
swell that caused the pirate vessel to roll until her scuppers were
under water. In these circumstances, should the _Mendez Nunez_ be
captured, making fast alongside the prize would be a manoeuvre
fraught with danger.

Captain Cain had made a correct guess with reference to the sighting
of the Spanish tanker. A wisp of smoke away to the S.S.W. indicated
the presence of a vessel. Half an hour later, two masts and funnel
showed above the horizon.

Glass in hand, the captain went aloft. From his elevated perch he
quickly ascertained that the on-coming craft was a tanker. Although
end on, the vessel's build and rig confirmed his surmise. She was
long, low-lying, with a funnel right aft. The only break between the
funnel and the bows was a small structure crowned by the bridge and
chart-house. She was flying no colours, but the yellow and red bands
round her funnel were sufficient to proclaim her nationality.

Rapidly the distance between the two vessels decreased. Giving a
rapid glance to reassure himself that there were no other craft in
sight, Captain Cain descended from the cross-trees to the deck and
thence to the bridge.

"Port a bit!" he ordered.

By so doing the _Alerte_ was merely conforming to the usual custom by
which vessels meeting nearly end on ported helm. The action served
its purpose. Quite in ignorance of the danger that menaced her, the
_Mendez Nunez_ followed suit, intending to pass the supposed tramp at
not less than two cables' distance.

Already the _Alerte's_ quick-firer was cleared for action, but was
hidden from the Spaniard by the rise of the former's fo'c'sle. The
moment the pirate vessel was in a position to enable the gun to
bear, a shell was fired across the tanker's bows, instantly followed
by the signal to heave to.

Signs were not lacking that this peremptory action had thrown the
Spaniards into a state of panic. Apart from the threat of being
sunk, they realised what the dire result would be of a shell
exploding the highly inflammable cargo. Some of the crew rushed to
lower the boats. The captain and some of his officers on the
tanker's bridge were beside themselves with terror.

"Stop instantly," signalled the pirate.

Some one on board the _Mendez Nunez_--certainly it was not the
captain--rang down for the engines to be reversed. The tanker soon
lost way, and was presently lying head to wind in the long Atlantic
swell.

With her machine-gun mounted on the bridge and trained upon the
Spaniard, and with every available man conspicuously displaying his
automatic pistol, the _Alerte_ was cautiously manoeuvred to come
alongside the prize. There was very little risk to the submarine's
hull. Her false upperworks might be stove in. The danger lay in the
fact that the _Alerte_ might fracture the light steel hull-plates of
the tanker, in which case the former would have to do without the
precious oil.

"Get your fenders out!" shouted Captain Cain to the still
dumbfounded crew of the _Mendez Nunez_.

Apparently some of the Spaniards understood English, or else they
realised the intentions of the approaching _Alerte_. Three large
fenders made of faggots bound with wire rope were lowered over the
starboard side.

With a heavy jar, the pirate craft and the _Mendez Nunez_ came
together. One of the fenders nipped as the two craft ground each
other's sides and was flattened like a pancake. Another carried
away. The partially lowered boat was crushed to matchwood. Rolling a
full fifteen degrees, the huge tanker stove in ten feet of the
_Alerte's_ bulwarks and buckled the stanchions at one end of her
bridge.

"An hour of this and we won't have a shred of upperworks left,"
expostulated Pengelly. "Sheer off, sir, while we have the chance."

For a wonder, Captain Cain concurred. With her port screw going full
astern, the _Alerte_ drew clear of her prey.

It was no intention on the part of the pirate captain to abandon the
attempt. Easing down a cable's length to leeward, he signalled
HNT--"Smooth sea by pouring oil on it."

In a few minutes the pumps of the _Mendez Nunez_ got to work. Volumes
of crude oil were released, spreading in vast iridescent patches to
lee'ard of the tanker. Although the swell still continued, it lost
its dangerous aspect.

"That's the ticket!" exclaimed Captain Cain to his second in
command. "Well, it's their oil they're using, not mine.... Steady on
your helm... port a bit... meet her at that."

Again the _Alerte_ closed her prey, this time on the port side. Held
by hawsers and springs fore and aft, the two vessels no longer
ground against each other with any danger of violence.

At the head of fifteen armed men, Captain Cain boarded the prize. No
resistance was offered. The Spanish captain and all his officers,
with the exception of two engineers, were ordered for'ard and locked
in the forepeak with the rest of the crew. Two of the tanker's
ejector pumps were led to the _Alerte's_ tanks and the work of
refuelling the pirate submarine began.

While this business was in progress, the boarding party were by no
means idle. A systematic search of the officers' quarters yielded a
little booty. The ship's stores and provision rooms were pillaged,
and anything likely to be of service to the pirates removed.

Then the wireless gear was rendered useless, the operator of the
_Mendez Nunez_ having previously been ordered to produce a record of
messages sent and received during the last four hours. None had been
sent since the _Alerte_ fired a warning shot across the tanker's bows,
the operator having deserted his post in the general panic that
ensued.

Meanwhile, Marchant the gunner, with a couple of hands, went below
to the tanker's engine-room. Breaking open the tunnel of the main
shaft, they fractured the propeller shaft by means of a slab of gun
cotton. Within the space of fifty minutes Captain Cain had
accomplished his task. He had replenished the _Alerte's_ fuel supply,
plundered the tanker, and had left her helpless in the Atlantic,
with no means of summoning assistance other than by visual
signalling.

"Recall the hands, Mr. Marchant," ordered Captain Cain, when the
gunner returned on deck and reported the fracturing of the propeller
shaft.

A shrill whistle had the immediate effect of bringing the
boarding-party to the side.

"All correct, sir," reported the gunner, after the men had numbered
off. "How about those chaps, sir?" he added, pointing in the
direction of the forepeak. "Do we let 'em out?"

"No," replied Cain, with a sardonic smile. "Let 'em batter the hatch
down when they find we're gone. A little extra damage won't
signify."

Returning to the _Alerte_, the pirate captain signed to the two
engineers of the tanker to cast off the hawsers; then, backing clear
of the _Mendez Nunez_, the _Alerte_ made off at full speed in a
nor'easterly direction, towards the Irish coast.

Forty-five minutes later, having dropped the tanker beneath the
horizon, the pirate submarine altered her course for the distant
African shore, secure in the knowledge that when assistance did come
to the disabled tanker, the Spaniards would declare that their
attacker was making in a direction far different to the course she
eventually took.

Just before eight bells in the first dog watch, the bo'sun came up
to Pengelly, who was in charge of the bridge.

"Two men missing, sir," he reported.

"Who are they?"

"Broadmayne and Vyse, sir."

"Then make a search for them. They didn't smuggle themselves on
board yon tanker by any chance?"

"Oh no, sir," declared Barnard. "They were seen some time after we
sheered off."

But the bo'sun had made a genuine mistake. At that precise moment
Broadmayne and his chum were having a very lively time on board the
Spanish tanker _Mendez Nunez_.



CHAPTER XVI

THE STOWAWAYS



"LOOK here!" exclaimed Broadmayne, in a low voice, "are you game?
Now's our chance."

He pointed to the _Mendez Nunez_.

"Steady on," replied Vyse cautiously. "Supposing we get on board
without being spotted: what then? Can you speak Spanish; I can't.
The blighters will take us for pirates--I don't blame them if they
do--and there'd be a deuce of a rumpus before we could explain.
They'd probably knife us out of hand."

The two chums were standing close to the poopladder while the
plundering of the tanker was in progress. Their "passive resistance"
was now tolerated without any interference on the part of the pirate
captain. Provided they stood their trick in the ordinary work of the
ship, they were not called upon to take any part in actual acts of
piracy. They certainly earned their keep. Captain Cain had not to
pay them. On the other hand, he still hoped to get a substantial sum
for their ransom. On that account, coupled with the fact that
already they knew too much to be released, they were retained on
board the _Alerte_.

"Risk that," rejoined the Sub laconically. "It's better than being
sent to the bottom for good and all, and that's what will happen if
we don't clear out."

"Right-o," agreed Rollo Vyse. "Wait till old Pengelly's looking the
other way and then shift like greased lightning."

"And get spotted directly we gain her deck," objected the Sub. "No;
our best way is to drop overboard, swim round under her stern, and
hang on to the falls of the boat they tried to lower. As soon as the
_Alerte_ backs clear, then up we shin."

"Beastly dirty job," remarked Vyse, objecting in turn, as he glanced
at the oil-smothered water. "All right. Lead on, Macduff!"

Awaiting their opportunity, for Pengelly was kept fairly busy in
shouting orders to the men tending the warps and transferring the
plunder to the _Alerte_, the chums made their way under the bridge.
Here, secure from observation, unless any of the crew of the
quick-firer came aft, they clambered through the gap in the stove-in
bulwarks and dropped into the sea.

For the first time they realised the extreme difficulty in swimming
in oil-covered water. It was a hard struggle to keep their heads
above the surface, and quite a strenuous effort to make progress. To
add to the peril, they were liable to be crushed by the hull of the
ship as she drifted to lee'ard, while when they reached the wind'ard
side they might find that the drift was so considerable that they
would be unable to keep pace with it.

"Dog-stroke," gasped Broadmayne. "Better than breast-stroke in this
muck. We're all right."

It seemed a fearfully long time swimming under the tanker's squat
counter. Then foot by foot they struggled along the Spanish vessel's
starboard quarter to where the jagged timbers of the crushed boat
still hung from the for'ard falls.

With a gasp of relief the Sub stretched out his hand and grasped the
débris. He waited until Vyse had obtained a hand-fast and then
cautiously hoisted himself out of the water and gained a temporary
refuge by sitting on the edge of the boat's bow-thwart, where his
chum soon joined him.

So far so good. They were roughly fifteen feet below the tanker's
stanchion-rail. The boat's bows were practically intact as far as
the second thwart, and hanging in a vertical position formed a
screen from the sight of any one who happened to look over the
tanker's side. But their plight was far from enviable. Owing to the
swell, the wreckage of the boat was thudding steadily against the
tanker's side and turning dizzily as the falls twisted and
untwisted. The chums were smothered with black oil from head to
foot. Some of the vile stuff had found its way into Rollo's eyes,
making them smart exceedingly. Yet in spite of the various
discomforts he could not refrain from remarking that they looked
like a pair of blackbirds in a cage.

"There's the recall," exclaimed the Sub, as above the hiss of
escaping vapour from the _Mendez Nunez's_ steam-pipe came the shrill
notes of a whistle.

For a few minutes longer the chums listened intently. They could
hear nothing more to indicate that the pirate submarine had parted
company with her prize.

"Don't move," cautioned Vyse suddenly. "Look!"

The stern of the _Alerte_ was beginning to be visible as the vessel
backed. If she carried sternway much farther, the fragments of the
boat with the two fugitives clinging to it would be exposed to the
view of the pirate crew.

More and more of the after-part of the pirate submarine's hull
showed until the end of the mainmast derricks came into view. Then,
at first almost imperceptibly, the sternway movement diminished. A
smother of oily foam from the _Alerte's_ twin propellers was flung
astern. Her engines were going ahead. For a brief instant the
relative position of the pirate craft and her prize remained
unchanged; then, gathering way, the _Alerte_ forged ahead and
disappeared from the view of the two chums.

"Think she'll be put about if we're missed?" asked Vyse anxiously.

"Might," admitted Broadmayne. "Perhaps they're so taken up with
their success that they've forgotten all about us. 'T any rate, up
we go. We'll lie doggo as long as we possibly can, in case Cain has
a fancy to renew our acquaintance."

It was no easy matter to swarm up that fifteen feet or so of
trebled, twisted rope. Their hands, smothered in thick oil, had
great difficulty to obtain a steady grip, while, to make matters
worse, the tanker was again rolling badly. With every roll the falls
with their human burdens bumped heavily against the ship's side.

At last the Sub reached the stanchion-rail. Crouching, he edged
sideways to enable his companion to gain a place of safety. Then he
gave a quick glance along the tanker's deck.

It was deserted. The two engineers, having completed their forced
task of casting off the _Alerte's_ warps, had gone below to obtain
tools to effect the release of the rest of the crew, who, knowing
that the pirate had sheered off, were clamouring loudly for help.
Doubtless they were under the mistaken though by no means unfounded
idea that their vessel was being scuttled, and that they were in
peril of being drowned like rats in a trap.

Broadmayne's next thought was for the _Alerte_. A roll of the tanker
raised the side sufficiently to enable the Sub to see right across
her deck to the expanse of sea beyond. There was the pirate
submarine, stern-on, legging it as hard as she could go in a
northerly direction. Already she was between a mile and a half and
two miles away and momentarily increasing the distance at the rate
of a mile every four minutes.

"All clear," reported the Sub. "Keep down as much as you can in case
Cain and Co. are using their binoculars. Now then, we've got to find
a place to stow ourselves."

"Not in these trousers," rejoined his chum. "We're shedding a trail
of oil. Deck isn't any too clean, I admit, but look there! A wash
and brush up and a change of clothing is what we want."

"And likely to want," added Broadmayne. "Look alive; let's go aft
and see what we can find. I agree as to the clothes. They're not
respectable and are decidedly uncomfortable."

The engine-room and officers' cabins on board the _Mendez Nunez_ were
right aft under the poop, which, in her case, was flush with the
part corresponding to the waist, except for the deck-house abaft the
funnel.

A glance down the engine-room hatchway in passing revealed the fact
that the place was deserted. Down the companion-ladder Broadmayne
crept, his chum close at his heels, their progress marked by a
double trail of oil.

"No one at home," remarked Vyse, stopping outside the open door of a
cabin marked with a brass plate "El Capitaño." "Looks as if our late
shipmates have been here before us."

"So much the better as far as we are concerned," added the Sub.
"We'll borrow from the Old Man's wardrobe. Quick! Off with your
gear. We can sling our discarded rags through the scuttle."

They stripped, "borrowed" the curtains over the scuttles to remove
as much as possible of their coating of oil and then rummaged
amongst the lockers under the bunk.

Vyse had spoken truly when he remarked that some one had been there
before them, but apparently the pirates were sufficiently well found
in the matter of clothing to trouble to steal the Spanish
skipper's wardrobe.

In a few minutes the two chums were "arrayed" in garments of
sufficient girth, but sadly lacking in length. Evidently El Capitaño
was a short and very fat individual, for the Sub found himself
wearing a pair of trousers that reached half-way between his ankles
and his knees, displaying an expanse of pale blue shirt between the
top of the "bags" and the hem of a coat somewhat resembling a
monkey-jacket.

Nor was Vyse much better off. He had to content himself with a
ridiculously short pair of knee-breeches--part of the Spanish
captain's shore-going "plain clothes"--and a blue dressing-gown
edged with scarlet silk.

"Look alive!" exclaimed Broadmayne. "They are let loose for'ard.
This way!"

Stopping at what was obviously the officers' pantry and picking up a
couple of small-sized loaves from a few that the pirates had
considered beneath their notice, the Sub led the way to a narrow
hatchway whence a steep iron ladder gave access to the steerage
flats.

It was Broadmayne's intention to seek shelter in the triangular
space traversed by the propeller shaft, but as he lifted the steel
flap a waft of acrid-smelling smoke drifted up.

"No place for us," he exclaimed.

"Have the blighters started a fire?" asked Rollo.

"No. At least, I think not," replied the Sub; "they have probably
been monkeying with the shaft. Hist!"

They listened. Footsteps sounded overhead. The stowaways' retreat
was cut off.

The compartment was in semi-darkness. A very subdued light filtered
through the still-open hatchway. The floor was either level with or
just below the waterline, while the walls forming part of the
"run-aft" of the ship were unpierced by scuttles.

Groping, Broadmayne discovered that at one side was a large tank. It
was rectangular and not shaped to fit the wing-plates, consequently
there was a fair space between it and the curved side sufficient for
several people to squeeze into.

It was a freshwater tank. The Sub could make out a couple of pipes
leading upwards--one for filling, the other communicating with a
pump in the officers' pantry.

The trap-hatch fell with a loud clang. The Spaniard who had come aft
had narrowly escaped falling through the aperture. Without troubling
to look down he had merely slammed the metal plate into position.

"That's good," said Vyse, in a low tone. "Cuts off most sounds. We
can talk if we want to."

"So we can," added a husky voice, coming from behind the water-tank.
"It's all right, chums; it's only me--Slogger Soames."

"Bless my soul, Soames!" ejaculated Broadmayne, "what are you doing
here?"

"Thought it about time I 'opped it," explained the ex-stoker.
"Things were goin' a bit too strong on board the old hooker, even
for me. I spotted you two slippin' over the side an' swimming round
this 'ere vessel's stern. Says I to myself suddenlike, 'Well, 'ere
goes. They'll want some one to bear a hand afore they're out of this
'ere mess.' An' I knows you won't give me away when we gets on the
beach. Plymouth gasworks'll suit me down to the ground after this
little spree, I give you my word."

"How did you get aboard?" asked the Sub.

"I was givin' a hand shiftin' cargo, in a manner o' speaking,"
replied Soames. "In plain English, we wur pinchin' the bloomin'
Dagoes' duds. Then Marchant yells out for a sledge-'ammer. I fetches
it aft, gives a look over the side to see you wur all right--you
didn't spot me, but I saw you a-hangin' on to the nose of that there
boat--and then I nips down 'ere. An' 'ere I be."

There were now sounds of great activity all over the ship. Judging
by the tone of their voices, the officers were rapidly becoming
acquainted with the disordered state of their looted cabins. From
the engine-room came indications that the staff were preparing to
get the machinery in motion.

A bell clanged loudly. A few seconds later the pistons began to
move. The engines raced madly, while a disconcerting, rasping,
groaning sound immediately underneath the fugitives' hiding-place
told its own tale.

"Cain fractured the shaft before he left," declared Broadmayne. "I
had an idea that's what it was."

For some minutes the terrific clatter continued, the deck-officers
being unaware that anything was wrong, until they noticed that the
ship was not gathering way. Then a renewed outburst with the
engine-room telegraph gong was followed by the engineers shutting
off steam. The discordant metallic clamour ceased, but a babel of
excited voices all shouting at once arose in its place.

Crouching behind the water-tank, the three stowaways waited. They
had not long to wait. The hatch was thrown open and a couple of
dungaree-clad men carrying electric inspection-lamps descended the
ladder. The dazzling glare seemed to penetrate every recess of that
confined space, especially while the newcomers were still on the
upper rungs of the ladder. But the Spanish engineers did not waste
time. They both disappeared through the manhole in the floor, a pair
of wavering intermittent beams of light flung upwards through the
aperture as they scrambled over the tunnel of the shaft.

Presently, talking rapidly and angrily, the two Spaniards retraced
their way. Nothing could be done with the shaft until the _Mendez
Nunez_ was dry-docked. Meanwhile the tanker was drifting helplessly,
unable to send out a wireless call for assistance.

For the three men hiding in the steerage-flat the time passed very
slowly indeed. They could talk in low tones; they were able to leave
their cramped quarters behind the tank and stretch their benumbed
limbs. They had food of a kind; for liquid refreshment they had to
content themselves with the steady drip from a leaky joint, the tank
being covered in with a steel lid that could only be removed by the
aid of a spanner. They were in Cimmerian darkness, for with the
closing of the overhead hatch even the subdued light that had
previously been filtering in was entirely cut off. The air, too, was
none too pure, mingled as it was with the stench from the bilges,
the still present odour of burnt gun-cotton, and a penetrating reek
of garlic.

Broadmayne and his companions had no idea of the time. Their watches
had long since disappeared. Occasionally they heard the bells
struck, but the Spaniards' method of keeping ship's time appeared to
differ radically with that of British-owned vessels. And since the
flat was in utter darkness, the fugitives were at a loss to know
whether it were day or night.

"Think it's safe to go on deck?" inquired Vyse

"No, I don't," replied Broadmayne, emphatically. "The Dagoes have
quieted down a bit; but the sight of us would probably be like that
of a red rag to a bull. We couldn't explain; they wouldn't listen, if
we could. No; we must stick it. The tanker's bound to be picked up
and towed into port, and from her position it's an eighty per cent.
chance in favour of a British port."

Not very long after there were unmistakable signs that the _Mendez
Nunez_ was being taken in tow. The sluggish rolling motion gave place
to a succession of jerks. The water no longer splashed against the
hull plating. It gurgled as it ran past the rudder, while the
clanking of the steam-steering gear announced that the tanker was
again using her helm.

"That's good!" commented Broadmayne. "Who's for a caulk? I'll keep
watch if you would like to have a snooze."

This suggestion was acted upon, Soames relieving the Sub at the end
of about two hours, as nearly as he was able to guess the passing of
time. Then Vyse took on, and at the end of his trick all three
finished up the remains of the last loaf.

They were feeling ravenous again when they felt the tanker's hull
bump against something, and heard the crew running along the deck
and the dull thud of wire-hawsers being brought to the winches.

"We're alongside," exclaimed Broadmayne. "Listen!"

Placing their ears to the hull plating, they could hear the sound of
an engine shunting trucks, then--to their unbounded satisfaction--a
voice shouting:

"All fast! Look alive with that brow, lads!"

"Time we shifted," declared Broadmayne, kicking out to work the
muscles of his cramped legs. "We've got to slip ashore quietly and
without any of the crew spotting us."

Mounting a few rungs of the ladder, the Sub with a powerful thrust
threw back the hatchcover. There was no one in the alleyway. A cloud
of steam issuing through the engine-room fidley cut off the view of
the deck; but it was sunlight, not artificial light, that played
upon the oil-reeking vapour.

Keeping together, the trio made their way for'ard. Just abaft the
mainmast they could see the inboard end of a brow inclined at a
steep angle. Close to it stood two of the Spanish officers and a
couple of civilians. Several of the crew were at the guard-rails
looking down at the crowd of sightseers on the quay-side.

"Now!" whispered Broadmayne.

The three made a mad rush for the gangway. One of the Spanish
officers started when he saw two weirdly-garbed men followed by a
third in strange rig making for the brow. Too astonished to attempt
to bar their way, he could only shout and gesticulate to the Spanish
seamen standing by.

One of the latter did endeavour to stop the fugitives. Broadmayne
charged him, sending him crashing against a second Spaniard. In a
trice the three Englishmen were running down the steeply-inclined
brow.

"Hi--there!" shouted one of the two civilians who were conferring
with the Spanish captain. "Stop those men!"

None of the crowd showed any inclination to obey the peremptory
request of the individual who, Broadmayne subsequently discovered,
was one of the Spanish Consulate staff. It was not on account of the
powerful physique of the three fugitives that the crowd made way.
Perhaps they guessed that the hurrying trio were in some way
connected with the pirate crew who had held up the Spanish tanker.
At all events, the sympathies of the onlookers were with the
fugitives, not the foreigners. Had Broadmayne and his companions
wished, they could have got clean away.

But this was not their intention. Apart from cutting ridiculous
figures by careering through the streets in garments that, like
parallel lines, would never meet on their bulky frames, Broadmayne
and Vyse had no cause for flight or concealment now that they were
safely on British soil.

"It's quite all right," shouted the Sub reassuringly. "We are not
going to take to our heels. Is there a policeman about? Will some
one please fetch a taxi?"

He had no occasion to ask what port they had arrived at. He knew the
place well. It was Falmouth. The _Mendez Nunez_ was berthed alongside
the quay, almost under the shadow of Pendennis Castle.

A policeman hurried up and produced a notebook.

"What's all this?" he demanded, looking askance at the nondescript
pair.

"Pirates! That's what they are!" shouted the consular official from
the tanker's gangway.

The policeman put away his notebook and measured the bulk of the two
oddly-attired men with his own size. He was a stalwart specimen of
the Force, but not to be compared in height and weight with his
would-be prisoners.

"In the name of the law!" he exclaimed. "I warn you. Any statement
you may make will be used in evidence against you. Now, are you
coming quietly?"

"Yes," replied Broadmayne. "In a taxi?"

He looked round to see where the ex-stoker was, but saw him not.
Slogger Soames had quietly walked off and was well on his way
towards the town--the first stage of his journey back to his native
Plymouth.



CHAPTER XVII

GETTING TO WIND'ARD OF PENGELLY


AT four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day on which the _Mendez
Nunez_ was towed into Falmouth harbour, Gerald Broadmayne, "clothed
and in his right mind" (to be precise, he had bathed, shaved and
shifted into naval uniform) passed through the wicket-gate of
Devonport Dockyard on his way to interview the Commander-in-Chief.

Rollo Vyse had gone home to assure his parents that he was not
drowned, and that, if Mr. Vyse had ignored Captain Cain's demands
for ransom, he might with perfect confidence continue to do so.

The chums' detention had been of short duration. At the
police-station they had asked the inspector to send for two local
residents whom they knew well, and who were ready to give their
assurances that the two suspects could with safety be released. In
the interval, ready-made and ill-fitting suits were sent to the
station to replace the borrowed garments belonging to El Capitaño
José Lopez.

A powerful car was hired and brought round to the police-station. To
it Broadmayne and Vyse were escorted between crowds of curious
spectators and followed by a knot of eager pressmen, who vainly
sought an interview with either or both of the Englishmen who had
come ashore from the Spanish tanker.

At Fowey the chums parted, Rollo to his home, the Sub to his, whence
after a bath, a change into the uniform of a sub-lieutenant, and a
square meal, Broadmayne resumed his car journey to Devonport
Dockyard.

With mixed emotions the Sub traversed the familiar cobblestones of
the dockyard, past the gigantic figureheads that served in a measure
to remind the New Navy of the deeds of the Old, and ascended the
steps of the Georgian portico of the admiral's official residence.

It was hard for the Sub to realise all that had occurred during the
comparatively brief interval from the time the luckless _Ibex_ left
Fowey harbour. He was in a rather unenviable position. Captain Cain
had undoubtedly saved his life and that of his companion. That, in
Broadmayne's opinion, outweighed the pirate's cavalier treatment of
his involuntary guests. In spite of his threats, Cain had respected
their scruples and had not compelled them to perform any act
amounting to piracy. And, with reference to the threatened flogging,
the Sub was none too sure that the pirate captain would have
proceeded to extremes.

And now Broadmayne had been officially called upon to give evidence
against Captain Cain and his rascally crew. Ought he, he wondered,
to reveal everything, even the secret of Cain's former association
with the Senior Service as a commissioned officer?

Cain was a pirate, a freebooter, an absconding swindler; but there
was this in his favour--he had never molested a British ship, and he
had not been guilty of murder, for even in the engagement with the
_Surcouf_ he had given directions controlling the fire, so that
although the Frenchman had been badly mauled, none of her crew had
been slain, the casualties, as subsequently given out, amounting to
five men wounded.

It was a perplexing problem for Sub-Lieutenant Broadmayne. More than
likely, from his intimate knowledge of the _Alerte_, he would be
appointed to some vessel detailed to accomplish either her capture
or her destruction. He did not hanker after the job; but he decided,
if it were to be his mission, he would do his utmost to carry it to
a successful conclusion. With Broadmayne, Duty, spelt with a capital
D, was the one object of his life as far as the Service was
concerned.

Then his thoughts turned to Pengelly. It did not take long to
dismiss him. Pengelly, he decided, was a mealy-mouthed, double-faced
blighter, hand in glove with Cain, speaking fair to his face and yet
never scrupling to cheat him out of his ill-gotten gains behind his
back. No, he had not the faintest sympathy for Paul Pengelly.

There was that other character, Silas Something. Broadmayne did not
remember his surname, but he knew the number and name of his lugger.
So did Vyse, who had overheard the plotting conversation between
Silas and Pengelly. Very well, then; Rollo Vyse could tackle that
part of the business. It would be something for him to do.
Broadmayne had not the detective instinct; Vyse had.

Giving his name to a messenger, Broadmayne was taken with little
delay into the Commander-in-Chief's private office. Here, in
addition to the admiral, his secretary and flag-lieutenant, were
several lieutenant-commanders, including Raxworthy, of the destroyer
_Windrush_. A couple of civilian shorthand writers completed the
gathering.

"Now, Mr. Broadmayne," said the admiral, after a few preliminaries,
"we want your story. Take your time and don't omit details. They may
seem unimportant, but in the long-run they may be of great service.
Now, fire away."

The Sub did so, keeping nothing back, with the exception of his
knowledge of Captain Cain's previous history. By the time he had
finished, both the shorthand writers, although they worked in
relays, were visibly fatigued; but the naval officers showed no
signs other than those of intense interest.

Broadmayne was then subjected to a lengthy string of questions.
Charts were produced and studied, plans of condemned submarines, and
lists of when and where they were sold for breaking-up purposes were
consulted. Notwithstanding the fact that the admiral usually dined
at seven-thirty, it was nearly nine o'clock before the "levee" broke
up, Broadmayne being "requested"--otherwise ordered--to report at
the Commander-in-Chief's office at nine-thirty the following
morning.

Broadmayne was putting on his greatcoat when Raxworthy, breaking off
a conversation with another officer, came across the vestibule to
him.

"Where are you putting up?" inquired the lieutenant-commander.

"At the Club, sir," replied the Sub.

"So am I," rejoined Raxworthy. "I'd like to have a pow-wow with you
over this business."

"Very good, sir."

The two left the dockyard together, hired a taxi, and were soon
bowling along Union Street to a residential club frequented by naval
officers when sleeping ashore.

"You're dog-tired," remarked Raxworthy, noting the strained look in
the other's eyes. "We'll have a meal and then you had better turn
in. We'll defer our private conference till the morning."

"Better get it over now, sir," said Gerald, with a laugh. "Probably
I'll be as fat-headed as an owl in the morning. And I've to see the
Commander-in-Chief."

"Well, look here," said Raxworthy, "this is a sort of private tip;
the admiral's going to have you appointed to one of the destroyers
told off to hunt the _Alerte_. Any objection if I apply for you?"

"No, sir," replied Broadmayne. Since he was to be one of the
hunters, it did not matter which ship he was appointed to. "Only I'd
like to point out that, with his previous experience, Cain isn't
likely to be caught napping by a destroyer again."

"We'd fix him by directional wireless."

"I've never known him to send out a message," declared the Sub.
"He'll receive them gladly if they gave him an indication of the
approach of a possible prize."

"How about the co-operation of a seaplane or flying-boat."

"Might, if the water's clear enough," admitted Broadmayne. "But
there's one way--if I might suggest----"

"Carry on," urged Raxworthy.

"Do the old Q-boat stunt, sir. A tramp well armed with concealed
Q.F.'s and disguised as a French or Belgian African cargo boat."

"By Jove, the very thing!" exclaimed the lieutenant-commander. "I'll
mention the suggestion to the admiral, tell him that the credit of
it belongs to you, and try and get him to give me command. He'll
probably start with ticking me off and finish up with doing his
level best to get me the appointment. Of course, you'll be willing
to serve with me?"

"Well, sir," replied Broadmayne, "you did your level best to send me
to Davy Jones. I'll return good for evil and try to help you pull
off the little stunt. We want to capture her, I presume?" he added
anxiously.

"To capture," confirmed the lieutenant-commander gravely. "It will
probably mean a hanging job for Cain and Pengelly. The others would
certainly get a term of penal servitude. Failing capture--that is,
if we fall in with the _Alerte_--we'll have to destroy her."

At the appointed hour Broadmayne reported to the admiral. This time
it was a fairly short interview, but none the less important. Not
only did the Commander-in-Chief promise to apply to the Admiralty
for the Sub's appointment, but he approved warmly of the suggestion
that a disguised and armed tramp should be employed as a decoy ship.

"There's another matter I want to mention," said the
Commander-in-Chief. "I think you stated that a Silas Somebody was
acting as a sort of intermediary, and that he was going to hide part
of the pirates' booty to the benefit of himself and--let me see, who
is it?" He broke off to refer to a type-written report of the
previous evening's evidence. "Ah, Pengelly; that's the man. You've
no idea where the place is?"

"My friend Vyse might be able to give you additional information,
sir."

"Then I'll have a wire sent to him," decided the admiral. "Perhaps
he would be able to assist us while you are on particular service
afloat."

"I think he'd be delighted to do so, sir," replied Broadmayne.

"Very well, then. You can carry on with your leave for a few days,
but I wish you to be present when Mr. Vyse is here. We have your
address?" At two the same afternoon, Broadmayne was "rung up" from
the dockyard, the message stating that Mr. Vyse had arranged to call
at Admiralty House at three; would Mr. Broadmayne be present?

Rollo Vyse was able to give some important information, namely, the
number of the _Fairy_--PZ 4452b. Communicating by telephone with the
Registrar of Shipping at Penzance, it was found that the owner's
name was Silas Porthoustoc, and that he lived just outside the
village of Mousehole. The registrar also added the somewhat
disconcerting information that the individual under discussion was
dead and buried, and that his house was to be sold by public auction
on the following Monday.

"But I don't suppose, sir," he concluded, "that that will interest
you."

"Won't it, by Jove!" exclaimed the Commander-in-Chief, when Penzance
exchange had "rung off." "It will. It rather simplifies matters. If
we can lay our hands on the specie or bullion without the public
getting wind of it, so much the better for us, and so much the worse
for that scoundrel Pengelly. By the bye, the Captain Cain, as he
calls himself; do you know by any chance what his name is? Is it
Trevorrick?"

"I've never heard him called by the name, sir," replied Broadmayne,
while Vyse replied in a similar strain.

"Because," continued the admiral, "if it were Trevorrick, then we've
fixed the precious pair. They ran a shipbreaking concern on the
river Fal. Of course, it is only a surmise. There are heaps of
Pengellys in the West Country. I know several, and they are men of
unimpeachable character. Very well, Mr. Vyse; if you'll be so kind
as to put your services at the Admiralty's disposal, I think you'll
see the end of the Porthoustoc business."

This was on a Wednesday. Since the sale of Old Silas's cottage was
fixed for the following Monday, there was little time to be lost.
The matter of recovering the booty could, of course, be managed
by the use of a search-warrant, but for certain reasons the
Commander-in-Chief decided to deal with it without invoking the aid
of the law. Once the booty were taken possession of, then the
Admiralty Courts could take up the case and restore the plunder to
its lawful owners--the Norddeutscher-Lloyd Company.

The complicated machinery of Whitehall was set in motion at high
pressure, with the result that early on Friday morning the
Commander-in-Chief at Devonport was given authority to purchase the
cottage without a limit being placed upon the amount to be paid.

Two hours later the admiral sent for a retired boatswain named
Primmer, an honest, reliable and discreet old man, who had
previously served three commissions under the Commander-in-Chief
before the latter attained Flag rank.

"Primmer," began the Admiral brusquely, "I want you to buy a house."

The ex-bo'sun looked considerably surprised.

"Very good, sir," he replied. "But I beg leave to state, sir, I've
already a little house at Mutley."

"Buy a house at Mousehole, near Penzance, and live in it," continued
the Commander-in-Chief. "But only for a month--perhaps less than
that. You'll have all expenses paid and fifty pounds in addition.
Change of air will do you a world of good, Primmer. Take the missus
and a vanload of furniture and you'll have quite an interesting
holiday."

"Very good, sir," said the pensioner again.

Then the admiral explained matters and introduced Rollo Vyse as a
supposed paying-guest.

"You two can work together splendidly," declared the admiral. "If
you require additional assistance, wire at once."

The sale by auction was at eleven. At two o'clock came a wire from
Primmer addressed in a precautionary measure to a private address at
Plymouth--that of one of the Commander-in-Chief's staff. The
telegram was to the effect that Primmer had secured the house and
had paid the necessary deposit to Messrs. Jeremiah Built & Co.,
Auctioneers and Surveyors, of Penzance.

Directly Primmer reported that his furniture had arrived and that
his temporary abode was ready to receive his guest, Rollo Vyse took
train to Penzance. After making arrangements for his luggage to be
sent on, Vyse set out to walk to Mousehole.

His rôle was that of an artist wishing to make seascapes under
winter conditions. There were, he knew, swarms of artists in Newlyn
and Mousehole, so that by making out that he was one of them, his
presence amongst a strictly conservative body of fisherfolk would
not attract so much attention as otherwise.

It was a pleasant walk. Although December was well advanced, the air
was mild. The bay looked a perfect picture in the slanting rays of
the sun.

"Wonder where Silas's former abode is?" he asked himself as he
rounded a bend in the cliff path and saw the secluded little harbour
of Mousehole nestling under the cliffs. "I'll ask. It may save my
having to retrace my steps."

The first man he met after the decision was a tall bronzed man
wearing fisherman's rig, including thigh boots.

"Up-along, Maaster," was the reply. "You'm see chimbly over atop o'
yon wall."

Vyse thanked him and went on.

"I've seen that fellow before," he soliloquised. "Where? Dash it!
That's done it. He's the mate of the _Fairy_. I thought he looked a
bit straight at me. If he's spotted who I am, then there's trouble
ahead."

The recognition had been mutual, and the former mate of the lugger
was considerably perturbed at finding Vyse on his way to the cottage
where Porthoustoc lived.

"Wot be 'is game, us 'ud like to know?" he muttered.

Since Silas's death, the former mate had become the master and owner
of the lugger _Fairy_, his share on the various nefarious transactions
undertaken by Porthoustoc enabling him to find the purchase-money.
The new owner was hoping to continue in the former skipper's
business. Reticent and apparently slow-witted, he had formed a
shrewd idea of the nature of the _Alerte's_ activities; but the
difficulty that confronted him lay in the fact that he did not know
the medium of communication between Captain Cain and his agent. He
was willing to become Porthoustoc's successor in the business; Cain
would have been only too glad of his services. But the connecting
link had snapped, hence a complete deadlock.

"Welcome, sir, welcome!" exclaimed Mr. Primmer, on Vyse's arrival.

"Well, how goes it?" asked Rollo.

"Terrible queer place, this, sir," replied the ex-bo'sun. "People
hereabouts tell you everything you don't want to know. If you do
want to know anything they are as tight as the intercepted thread of
the breech-block of a fifteen-inch gun, if you understan' my
meanin'. I'm taboo--sort of leper amongst this little lot. They
don't take to newcomers."

"Well, I hope we shan't be here long, Mr. Primmer," said Rollo. "I'd
like to get away before Christmas."

"Same 'ere, sir," agreed the new tenant cordially. "We'll get to
work soon as you like. I've got crowbar, picks and spades an'
such-like. An' I brought a sack of cement up from Plymouth. Thought
it 'ud make 'em think if I got it hereabouts."

"I'll change, and then we'll have a look at the kitchen," decided
Rollo. "It'll make a bit of a mess, I fancy."

"My missus she don't mind," said Mr. Primmer reassuringly. "Fact is,
we've been doin' all the cooking in the spare room--proper sort o'
galley it makes."

Having completed the necessary change of clothing, Rollo,
accompanied by his host, went to the room under discussion. It was
about twenty feet in length and fifteen in breadth, stone walled and
stone floored. A doorway gave direct access to the garden; another
into the living-room. There were two narrow windows, which gave the
place a look of perpetual gloom. One wall was blank, the kitchen
having been partly let into the steep hillside at the back of the
cottage.

"That's our task," declared Rollo, pointing to the blank wall.

"I've been a-lookin' at it, sir," said the ex-bo'sun. "Wall's made
of stone set in cement. It don't look as if it's been touched come
these fifty year--maybe longer."

"I'll get a torch," said Rollo. "It's too dark to see much without
artificial light. We'll have to curtain those windows pretty heavily
when we work at night. Any one coming along that path--it's a
public one, I take it?--can see right in if we don't screen the
windows."

Throwing the rays of his electric torch upon the mass of masonry,
Vyse saw that the ex-bo'sun had good reason for his statement. The
stones were black with smoke, the cement as hard as iron. Further
examination showed that there was a small rectangular aperture in
the roof close to the wall. Evidently the former occupants were in
the habit of kindling a fire on the open hearth adjoining the wall
and allowing the smoke to escape through the hole in the roof.

"'Fraid the Admiralty have made another bad bargain, sir," remarked
Mr. Primmer.

"It looks like it," admitted Rollo, scraping the cement with the
back of the blade of his penknife. "I suppose the cave does exist?
Wonder if the entrance is under these flagstones?"

"We'll soon find that out, sir," declared the other. "I've a pick
and a crowbar close handy."

It was a long and difficult task chipping away the mortar between
the flagstones. As Rollo toiled and sweated, he wondered what it
would be like having to loosen cement. Mortar was hard enough.

At length, one stone was eased from its setting. With the aid of the
crowbar it was lifted. Underneath was soft soil mingled with rock.
Obviously that mixture would not hold over the mouth of a cave.

"Done there," admitted Vyse. "I'll swear old Porthoustoc said
'behind the kitchen,' not under it; but there's no reason why the
entrance should or should not be in the centre. We'll try at one
side and work right along."

Rollo had not been scraping more than five minutes when he gave an
exclamation of satisfaction.

"This is new cement, Mr. Primmer!" he exclaimed. "Look: it's quite
clean underneath the surface. Silas has been doing a bit of
camouflage; rubbing soot over the joints. The stuff hasn't
penetrated the cement like it has elsewhere. However, we've done
enough for the present. We'll start again to-morrow morning. I don't
think we'll have much difficulty now."

That night Rollo slept heavily. He had had a strenuous day.
Accustomed to plenty of fresh air, he invariably slept with the
bedroom window wide open.

Suddenly he awoke with a start to find the room full of moist
vapour. A sea-fog, banking up after a warm, humid day, had swept
inland.

It was not the fog that had aroused him. A curious horripilation,
such as he had never before experienced, gripped him. For some
moments he lay with wide-open eyes fixed upon the dark grey
rectangular patch of open window.

Something prompted him to get out of bed and go to the window. He
did so. Above the fogbank, which perhaps was less than fifty feet
from the ground, the stars were shining. The fleecy pall of vapour
was moving, curling, and alternately diminishing and increasing in
volume as it was urged landwards by the faint breeze. The fog,
catching at his throat, made him cough slightly. As he did so, he
distinctly heard the sound of footsteps moving rapidly and
stealthily away.

His bedroom window was less than ten feet from the ground, the house
being low. On his left was the front of the kitchen--a one-storeyed
building. It was from that direction that the sound of the
mysterious footsteps came.

Rollo's first impulse was to drop to the ground and go in pursuit,
but calmer counsel prevailed. He was at an obvious disadvantage. He
was not at all acquainted with the ground surrounding the house. He
was barefooted and in pyjamas. There was also the question of
arousing Primmer and his wife, since if he jumped from the window he
could not regain his room except by the door, which was barred and
locked. Besides, by this time the intruder had gone a considerable
distance, for his footsteps were no longer audible.

"Well, I think I scared him," he mused. "In future, while I'm here I
think I'll have a bed made up in the old kitchen. Then, if any one
tries to break in he'll feel sorry for himself."

Next morning Vyse related what had occurred. Examination of the
kitchen door showed that no attempt had been made to force it.
Apparently the nocturnal visitor had either been disturbed before he
could get to work, or either he had contented himself with flashing
a lantern through the window, which was too narrow even for a slim
man to squeeze through.

The forenoon Rollo spent in "pottering around" the village and
harbour with his easel and palette, simply to sustain his rôle of a
painter. At the same time he kept a sharp look-out for the _Fairy's_
new owner, but in this direction he was disappointed.

After the midday meal, Vyse and his assistant got to work. They were
on the right track this time. Three hours' strenuous toil resulted
in the removal of a couple of large stones set in very hard cement.
Through the small aperture thus formed, they could discern a cavern
of generous proportions.

It had taken Silas Porthoustoc half a day to build up the mouth of
the cave, working single-handed. Eight hours intermittent toil on
the part of Rollo and Primmer resulted in a hole big enough for them
to crawl through.

Armed with a torch, Rollo led the way. It was a matter of about a
three-feet drop to the floor of the cave, the natural mouth of which
was of oval section, seven feet in height and four in width. In
length it went back nearly eighty yards, the width and height
increasing at ten feet or so from the entrance.

There was the booty, packed as it was when it was transhipped from
the _Alerte_ to the _Fairy_, with the exception of one or two sacks
which had been opened by Old Silas, either for present use purposes
or else to enable him to satisfy himself of the nature of their
contents.

Working at high pressure, Vyse and his companion removed all the
booty from the cave and stored it in one of the rooms. They then
proceeded to wall up the cave, carefully discolouring the cement in
order to impart the appearance of age.

At the same time, the new owner and master of the lugger _Fairy_ was
composing an anonymous letter to the chief officer of the Water
Guard at Penzance.

Rollo had another disturbed night. With an automatic pistol ready to
hand, he slept on a camp-bed by the side of the large pile of booty;
but although he kept waking and tiptoeing to the window, somewhat to
his surprise there were no signs of the intruder of the previous
evening. As soon as the post office opened, a telegram was
dispatched to Devonport asking for a van to be sent to remove the
"furniture"; while to allay suspicion on the part of his neighbours,
Primmer spread the yarn that his recently-acquired cottage was
haunted, that his wife refused to remain there another night, and
that he had arranged to clear out that very clay.

Just before noon a motor pantechnicon bearing the name of a
well-known firm of furniture removers, but driven by a naval
artificer in mufti and accompanied by four stalwart marines in
civilian clothes (unfortunately their soldierly bearing discounted
their rôle of furniture-packers), arrived at the late Porthoustoc's
former abode.

Primmer's goods and chattels, together with the carefully-covered
boxes and sacks of bullion and specie, were stowed in the van. His
wife had previously gone on to Penzance station. Vyse and the
ex-bo'sun were taking a final look round before locking up the
cottage when a policeman walked up to the door.

"You haven't made a long stay," he remarked, addressing Mr. Primmer.
"Seems to me you're taking away a sight more stuff than ye brought
in a day or so back. D'ye mind if I have a look at some of those
boxes?"

The ex-bo'sun, taken aback, glanced appealingly at Rollo, who merely
shrugged his shoulders. In his part of an artist he could not very
well assume any responsibility without giving himself away.

"Sure I do mind," replied Primmer, at a loss to say anything else.

"Then," continued the representative of law and order, "it is my
duty to----"

He broke off suddenly, possibly thinking that the odds were too
great for him to tackle single-handed. He gave a sharp blast on his
whistle. From behind the stone wall appeared half a dozen men in the
uniform of His Majesty's Water Guard.

"Contraband!" exclaimed the policeman, waving his hand in the
direction of the loaded pan-technicon. "Caught red-handed you be!"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE DESTROYER AND THE DESTROYED


EXACTLY three weeks after the capture of the _Mendez Nunez_ the _Alerte_
arrived off the mouth of the Wad-el-Abuam, a small river flowing
into the Atlantic a few miles south of Cape Bojador.

The estuary formed an ideal base for Captain Cain's new sphere of
operations. Nominally within the limits of Rio del Oro--Spain's
extensive, unproductive and loosely-held dependency, stretching from
Morocco on the north to French Senegal on the south--the
Wad-el-Abuam was hardly ever visited by vessels, except Moorish
coasters and fishing craft.

The entrance to the river was a difficult one, a bar on which the
surf broke heavily, extending practically right across it, although
well on the starboard hand was a narrow channel carrying twenty feet
at high water and protected by a long, narrow rocky island that not
only served as a breakwater, but also effectively screened the
estuary when viewed from seaward.

Within the bar the depth increased to sixty feet, with a bottom of
firm white sand. Farther up, the bed was composed of mud that became
more objectionable as the width of the river decreased. The
banks were almost destitute of vegetation, consisting of sand with a
few palms and a scanty scrub that afforded meagre food for goats
belonging to the inhabitants. There were four or five small villages
populated by a tribe of savages, half Arab, half Negro, who had long
resisted any attempt at subjection on the part of the Spanish troops
stationed at Villa Cisnero and other fortified posts of Rio del Oro.

Within two hundred miles lay the Canary Islands, with Funchal, the
favourite port of call for ships running between Europe and the west
and south coasts of Africa. Farther to the south'ard was Teneriffe,
with Las Palmas, another frequented coaling-station. Both these were
within the _Alerte's_ wireless radius, so that the pirates hoped to
obtain a fairly complete report of all vessels passing within
striking distance of their proposed base.

"I suppose we haven't made a mistake," remarked Pengelly, as the
_Alerte_ slowly approached the land. "I can't see any sign of an
estuary."

"It must be there," replied Cain, after consulting the latest but
far from reliable chart of this part of the coast. "We'll stand in a
bit more. If there's any doubt about it, we'll send a boat and take
soundings. The sailing directions state that the island is hardly
distinguishable from the mainland except at short distance."

He levelled his binoculars for the twentieth time during the last
hour.

"By thunder!" he exclaimed. "Hanged if there isn't a sail coming
round the point. Native craft, by the cut of her."

"That's awkward," remarked the second in command. "We don't want
company of that sort. She's heading towards us."

"Let her," said Cain, with his characteristic grim smile. "Let her.
Mr. Marchant, serve out the small arms. Get up the machine-gun, but
keep it out of sight until it might be wanted. We'll nab that fellow
and make the crew pilot us in."

Little guessing what reception awaited her, the boat approached. She
was a roughly-built craft of about thirty feet in length, bluff
bowed and with a high, ungainly stern. Her rig resembled that of a
felucca, but with a boom in place of the loose-furled sail usually
affected by craft of the type to be met with in the Mediterranean.
it could be seen that there were three men on board. One, dressed in
a loose garment of white, including a burnous, was at the long,
curved tiller. The others, darker skinned, wore loincloths only.

While the _Alerte_ was yet a quarter of a mile from her, the felucca
ported helm, close-hauled, and stood off in a nor' nor'-westerly
direction.

"What's her little game, I wonder?" remarked Pengelly. "I thought
she was coming off to us."

"So did I," agreed Captain Cain. "But now I think she's a Moorish
fishing vessel homeward bound. She had to stand out towards us to
avoid running on the shoals. We'll collar her, Pengelly. If the old
boy in the cotton nightgown is reasonable we'll pay him and let him
go when he's piloted us in."

In obedience to an order from the bridge, the _Alerte's_ Diesel
engines slowed down, till at a modest three and a half knots the
pirate submarine gained position between the felucca and the shore.
Having thus cut off the latter's retreat, the _Alerte_ starboarded
helm and, working up to twelve knots, began to overhaul the native
craft with ease.

A cast of the lead gave nine fathoms, and since the chart showed
that the soundings were remarkably even on this course, Captain Cain
had no apprehensions of running his vessel aground.

The crew of the felucca seemed quite apathetic when they saw the
_Alerte_ in pursuit. At a sign from the white-robed Moor the two
blacks lowered the sails, one of them standing by to heave a line.

Declutching her propellers, the pirate submarine gradually lost way,
coming to a dead stop alongside the felucca.

By means of a conversation conducted chiefly by signs, Captain Cain
imparted his request for a pilot, and without the faintest display
of hesitancy the Moor scrambled on board the _Alerte_, leaving his two
men to drop the felucca astern. Nor did he betray any sign of fear
when he saw the pirate crew armed with automatic pistols. Calmly,
and in a dignified manner, he proceeded to find out the draught of
the ship. This he did by producing a piece of cord about a yard in
length and then drawing the rough profile of a steam vessel. With a
much smaller piece of string he then measured off the draught on his
plan, and then pointing first to the longer cord and then to the
_Alerte_ he managed to make his meaning clear.

Captain Cain replied by indicating the longer cord and then holding
up six fingers. The Moor nodded gravely and motioned to the pirate
skipper to order the ship to forge ahead.

Slowly the _Alerte_ made her way inside the island, and thence through
the channel over the bar. The while the lead was kept going,
Pengelly and the bo'sun taking bearings and noting how the channel
bore for future occasions.

"Stand by and let go!" roared Cain as the _Alerte_ arrived at her
anchorage. "Is the buoy streamed, Mr. Barnard?"

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied the bo'sun.

"Then let go!"

With the rattle of chain tearing through the hawsepipe, the anchor
plunged to the bed of the Wad-el-Abuam.

Pengelly turned to his captain.

"Snug little crib, this, sir," he remarked. "What about our pilot?
Are we going to overhaul his boat in case there's anything useful?
The blighter might have been pearling. One never knows."

"Certainly not," replied Cain, with a deep frown of disgust. "The
fellow did us a good turn. Only an ungrateful, low-down swine would
suggest such a thing."

Turning to the Moor, who was standing a couple of paces off, the
pirate captain handed him a gold coin.

The pilot took the piece of money, made an elaborate salaam, and
went to the side, the felucca having been brought to the gangway.
Already the two negroes were hoisting sail. With another
salaam, the Moor boarded his own craft, the ropes were cast off, and
the felucca headed for the open sea.

Directly the intervening island hid the anchorage, the hitherto
grave features of the pilot were suffused with a broad grin.

"Start up the motor, Tom!" he exclaimed in English. "George, send
the aerial aloft. By Jove! I had the wind up when that pirate bloke
suggested overhauling the boat!"

In quick time the aerial was spread between the two masts and the
"lead-in" connected to a powerful wireless set concealed between
double bulkheads at the after end of the little fo'c'sle. A message
was then dispatched in code to the Officer Commanding H.M.S. _Canvey_,
giving the position of the pirate submarine's new base.

It was a smart bit of work. The _Canvey_, formerly a tramp steamer,
had been fitted out by the Admiralty as a decoy-ship, disguised as
the Belgian passenger and cargo boat _Candide_ and supposed to be
running between Borna, in Belgian Congo and Antwerp. Commanded by
Lieutenant-Commander Ralph Raxworthy, D.S.O., she was armed with six
six-inch guns and two submerged torpedo tubes, while for scouting
purposes she carried in her hold two of the latest type of small
flying boats fitted with folding wings. These aircraft could be
hoisted out and ready to ascend within the space of twelve minutes.

But in order to locate the _Alerte's_ base without exciting suspicion
or giving any indication of her presence in the offing, Raxworthy
had applied for seven boats of a type in use on this part of the
coast. Each of these was fitted with a paraffin motor and a wireless
installation, and was placed in charge of either a junior
commissioned officer or else a warrant officer. For crew, West
Indian negroes with a good knowledge of being able to manage a boat
under sail, were enlisted for temporary service, two or three being
told off to each boat.

It was a job that Sub-Lieutenant Gerald Broadmayne would have given
much to have undertaken; but in his case the risk was too great. Not
on account of possible personal danger was he turned down. In spite
of a skilful disguise he might be recognised by Captain Cain, should
the two meet. In that case the pirate would realise that a British
warship was hard on his heels and would take precautions
accordingly.

Well before sunset the seven tenders, recalled by wireless, returned
to their parent ship. Almost the first to arrive was the boat
commanded by Sub-Lieutenant Allerton, who had served under Raxworthy
in the _Windrush_ when she claimed to have sunk the _Alerte_ in St.
Ives' Bay.

Allerton was in high feather. It was he who had "trailed the tail of
his coat" across the path of the pirate submarine and had piloted
her into the estuary of the Wad-el-Abuam.

"Cain, as he calls himself, is rather a sport," he declared to his
rather envious brother-officers. "But that fellow Pengelly is an
out-and-out rotter--a cross between a broken-down mummer and
pickpocket. You know the type I mean."

"How is Cain a sport?" inquired the torpedo lieutenant.

"He ticked the mealy-mouthed blighter off when he suggested helping
himself to whatever he could find in the boat," replied Allerton.
"Cain jumped on him properly, and gave me a German ten-mark
gold-piece as a sort of backsheesh. He'd probably pinched it. I
didn't ask questions. I'll have the thing made into a brooch when we
get home."

Lieutenant-Commander Raxworthy did not receive the information of
the pirate submarine's base with any degree of enthusiasm. In fact,
he was rather down in the mouth about it. He had hoped that the
_Alerte_ would seek shelter in an obscure port in Morocco. Then the
_Canvey_ could go in and settle with her. The fact that the
Wad-el-Abuam was in Spanish territory, however loosely held,
complicated matters considerably. Without violating international
law he could do nothing unless the Spanish Government agreed to
allow the British warship a free hand.

Accordingly, the _Canvey_ put into Teneriffe and reported to the
Admiralty by cable lest a lengthy dispatch by wireless, even though
it were in code, should alarm the pirates and prompt them to change
their base.

For the next few days the decoy ship steamed to and fro between the
Canaries and St. Vincent sending out fictitious messages _en clair_
in the hope that the _Alerte_ would emerge from her retreat and come
outside the three-mile limit in order to seize a likely prey. But no
_Alerte_ put in an appearance.

Meanwhile, the Spanish Government had refused to accede to the
British Admiralty's request. Since the pirate vessel had made use of
a harbour in a Spanish colony, it was "up" to Spain to avenge the
insult to her national dignity. Accordingly the destroyer _Villamil_
was ordered to leave Cartagena and proceed to Wad-el-Abuam to
destroy the _Alerte_.

The _Villamil_ was an old vessel of three hundred and sixty tons, with
a speed of twenty-eight knots. Her armament consisted of five
six-pounders, of which three could fire ahead and three on the beam.
In addition, she carried two torpedo tubes.

While the Spanish destroyer was speeding south, the _Alerte_ remained
riding to her anchors in Wad-el-Abuam. It was not owing to
inclination on the part of Captain Cain that she did not put to sea.
Wireless messages were frequently being intercepted from vessels
bound to and from the French and Belgian colonies on the west coast
of Africa. Tempting prizes they appeared to be. But the _Alerte_ had
developed a leak where the post of the vertical rudder passes
through the trunk. A gland had given out. It would have been a
fairly simple business to effect repairs could the submarine be
dry-docked. In present circumstances it was a tedious and difficult
process, and until it were completed the _Alerte_ would be unable to
submerge without the almost certain result of being flooded. While
on the surface the leak could be kept under control; but at any
great depth the hydrostatic pressure would be irresistible.

While this work was in progress, Captain Cain had not allowed other
matters to slide. One of his first steps was to establish a signal
station on the rocky island guarding and screening the _Alerte's_
anchorage. Day and night armed men were on watch at the station,
ready to signal to the pirate vessel the moment any sail appeared
over the horizon.

Just before noon one morning, Captain Cain was informed that a craft
looking like a destroyer was approaching from the nor'ard and
steaming a course parallel to the coast.

Although fully conscious of the danger the _Alerte_ was incurring by
being caught in a disabled state, Captain Cain showed no sign of
panic. He was trapped. He knew it. Unable to submerge, unable to
ascend the river more than a few miles with a draught that
considerably exceeded that of a destroyer, he realised that the only
thing to be done short of scuttling the _Alerte_ and chancing a
doubtful refuge ashore in a barren country inhabited by fierce
natives, was to fight it out.

In hot haste six men with the machine-gun were sent off in a boat to
the island with instructions to keep under cover and not to open
fire until the approaching destroyer came within a hundred yards of
the rock, which she must do by reason of the tortuous course of the
deep-water channel.

The _Alerte_ was swung athwart the river to enable her six-inch
quick-firer to bear. With the exception of the captain, Mr. Marchant
and the gun's crew, all the rest of the hands were ordered below to
be ready to replace casualties amongst the men working the
quick-firer.

Presently a signal came through from the island: "Destroyer holding
on. Is flying Spanish colours."

"In that case we needn't worry much, my lads," exclaimed Cain. "She's
probably going down the coast. If she isn't, then we're more than
her match. There's not a single destroyer belonging to the Spanish
Navy with a gun anything approaching our six-inch. We'll give it her
in the neck if she tries conclusions with us."

After a brief interval, another message came through: "Destroyer
turned eight point to port and is making for the bar."

"Good enough, my hearties!" declared Cain in his ringing, convincing
voice. "Let her have it directly she pokes her nose round the bluff.
What's the opening range, Mr. Marchant?"

"Two thousand yards, sir," replied the gunner.

Under the captain's orders one of the crew ran off with a bundle
under his arm. Presently a flag was hoisted at the ensign staff. For
the first time the _Alerte_ was showing her true colours--the "Jolly
Roger."

Alone on the bridge, Cain stood calm and confident. There was not
the slightest tremor in his large, powerful hands as he grasped his
binoculars ready to bring them to bear upon the as yet invisible
enemy.

From his elevated position he gave a rapid glance at the gun's crew.
The men had closed up round their weapon, the gunlayer bending as he
peered through the sights. In the rear crouched the loading-party,
each with his hands on a hundred-pound projectile, ready the moment
the breech-block was opened to thrust the shell into the still
smoking breech. And somehow Cain's thoughts flew back to a similar
scene in the presence of an enemy. Then, he was fighting for a just
cause under the glorious white ensign. Now, he was fighting for no
cause but his own, his hand against every man's, and under the
shadow of that emblem of dishonour--the skull and cross-bones.

Round the precipitous face of the island appeared the lean bows of
the Spanish destroyer. Then her round bridge, mast and funnels came
into view. Through his glasses Cain saw that her fo'c'sle gun was
manned by a crew of white-clad, swarthy-faced men.... There was a
deafening crash as the _Alerte's_ six-inch sent the hundred-pound
projectile hurtling on its way.... Even as he looked, Cain saw a
vivid flash immediately in front of the destroyer's bridge... a
cloud of smoke torn by diverging blasts of air.... The smoke
dispersed, or rather the destroyer's speed carried her through
it.... The crew of her fo'c'sle six-pounder had dispersed, too; with
them the gun and its mounting.... The bridge didn't look the same as
it had a few seconds previously--a bit lopsided. Flames were pouring
from a heap of débris in the wake of the foremast.

At two thousand yards the appalling noise caused by the explosion of
the _Alerte's_ first shell was inaudible to the solitary watcher on
her bridge. The scene brought within a very short distance through
the lenses of the powerful binoculars resembled a "close-up" picture
on the cinematograph--unrealistic by reason of the absence of sound.

Two vivid flashes leapt from the Spanish destroyer's deck, one on
the port side, the other to starboard. They were her reply to the
destructive "sighting shot" from the pirate submarine.

The _Villamil_ had received a rough awakening. Her crew, not one of
whom had previously been under fire, were lacking in that courage
and tenacity that marks the Anglo-Saxon race. Appalled by the havoc
wrought on the fo'c'sle, the gunlayers of the remaining weapons that
could be brought to bear certainly did make reply. Their aim was
bad. One shell whizzed high above the _Alerte's_ masts, shrieking as
it sped to bury itself harmlessly in the sand three miles away. The
other, striking the water a hundred yards short of its objective,
ricochetted and hurtled through the air full fifty yards astern.

Cain paid no attention to either. His interest was centred upon his
attacker. He could hear the rapid crashes of the _Alerte's_
quick-firer. He could see the results by the frequent lurid bursts
of flame and the showers of débris as shell after shell struck the
luckless Spaniard.

Still she came on, leaving an eddying trail of smoke. One of her
six-pounders was firing spasmodically. She was reeling like a
drunken man.

Suddenly Cain put aside his glasses and made a spring for the
telegraph indicator, moving the starboard lever to "full ahead." His
quick eye had discerned a glistening object curving over the
_Villamil's_ side. A torpedo was already on its way, travelling at the
speed of a train in the direction of the pirate submarine.

Well before the action the _Alerte's_ oil-engines had been started
with the clutches in neutral position. It was a precaution that was
justified in its results. Under the action of one propeller only the
_Alerte_ forged ahead, her stern swinging round as she overran her
anchors.

Cain had no occasion now to use his binoculars. The double diverging
wake of the submerged locomotive torpedo was plainly visible to the
naked eye. It was approaching very rapidly; the ship was swinging
very slowly--too slowly, it seemed.

For ten seconds the captain held his breath. Looking aft, the rise
of the poop intercepted the wake of the torpedo. It seemed as if the
_Alerte_ was doomed.

But no explosion tore her asunder. By less than a couple of yards
the deadly missile cleared her stern, to detonate harmlessly against
the steep bank of the river half a mile away.

The _Alerte's_ quick-firer was now silent. The manoeuvre that had
saved her from the torpedo had brought her almost bows-on to the
_Villamil_, with the result that the former's fo'c'sle masked her line
of fire.

By this time the Spanish destroyer had closed to about a thousand
yards. She was yawing badly. Possibly her steam-steering gear had
been demolished and she was being conned from aft.
Nevertheless, she was keeping to the channel which at this
particular time brought her almost abeam. Her decks were a shambles,
two of her funnels had disappeared. The rest of the bridge that had
survived the _Alerte's_ first shell had collapsed. One gun well aft
alone was spitting defiance. Either she meant to ram her anchored
opponent, or else she was manoeuvring for a position favourable for
the release of a second torpedo.

Again the _Alerte's_ engine-room telegraph bell clanged. With the port
propeller going hard astern, and her cables tautened like
harp-strings, she began to swing into her former position.

For the first time since the action commenced Captain Cain spoke.
Leaning over the bridgerail he shouted to the gunlayer to aim for
the Spaniard's aft torpedo-tube.

The _Villamil_ was well down by the head and had a pronounced list to
starboard. Her speed had appreciably fallen off. The menace of being
rammed was now hardly worth taking into account; but the torpedo----
At that range, if the Spanish torpedo-gunner knew his job, it was
almost a matter of impossibility to miss.

Cain could see four or five grimy figures bringing the loading cage
to the after-end of the tube. The torpedo was launched home.... He
could see the convex metal cover swing into the closing position...
the torpedo coxswain was getting astride the tube... in another
three or four seconds...

A deafening crash told the anxious skipper of the _Alerte_ that the
six-inch was again at work. At a range of six hundred yards the
shell got home. A terrific flash--it was far too vivid for the
explosion of a shell--leapt from the destroyer. An enormous cloud of
smoke was hurled skywards, completely obliterating the _Villamil_ from
Cain's vision. A blast of hot air swept over the superstructure of
the submarine. Pieces of metal tinkled on her steel deck. Heavier
pieces were falling with a succession of splashes into the
smoke-enshrouded water.

Slowly the pall of acrid-smelling vapour dispersed. Where the
destroyer had been was an expanse of agitated water surrounding a
broad and steadily-growing patch of black oil. Of the eighty men who
formed her crew, not one survived.

The only casualty on board the _Alerte_ was No. 3 of the gun's crew,
and he had been knocked out only after the _Villamil_ had been
destroyed. A fragment of steel descending with terrific force had
struck him on the head, killing him instantly.

The action over, Captain Cain brought the rest of the hands on deck.

"My lads!" he exclaimed, "if we were out for glory, we've got it. It
wasn't of our seeking. It's riches, not glory, we're after. Now,
lads, although there's no one of our opponents left to tell the
tale, we'll have to get a move on. One more good capture and we pay
off. With luck we'll finish repairs by nightfall. To-morrow I hope
our aims will be realised. There's a Belgian vessel due to leave St.
Vincent at dawn to-morrow. She's ours for the asking. I propose to
capture her and bring her in here until we can unload everything of
value. All then that remains to be done is to hide the booty, make
our way home and come out again as quite above-board West Coast
traders. That's all I have to say, lads. No hanging on to the slack,
but plenty of beef into your work for the next few hours and
everything will be plain sailing. Pipe down!"



CHAPTER XIX

RECALLED


THE decoy-ship _Canvey_ lay at anchor off St. Vincent, whither she had
gone to replenish her oil-fuel tanks. Both officers and men were
growing tired of the seemingly interminable stunt of steaming to and
fro between the Cape Verde Islands and Teneriffe, vainly inviting
Captain Cain to "tread on the tail of my coat." They wanted to cut
into Wad-el-Abuam and settle the matter once and for all. It was
galling to have to keep in the offing, while the Spanish destroyer
_Villamil_ was at liberty to enter the estuary and destroy the
pirates' lair.

Day after day passed without untoward incident. Although the Spanish
Government had expressed its intention of keeping the British
Admiralty well informed as to the progress of operations, no message
was received by the _Canvey_ from London, or in fact from anywhere
that had any bearing upon the all-important subject of the
destruction of the pirate submarine.

And for a very good reason. No wireless message from the _Villamil_
was received by the Spanish naval authorities after a brief report
that the destroyer was about to enter the Wad-el-Abuam to attack the
_Alerte_. From that time the movements of the destroyer were shrouded
in mystery.

Presently it occurred to the Spanish Admiralty that all was not well
with the _Villamil_. There was something decidedly ominous about the
prolonged silence. The weather had been unusually quiet, so her
disappearance could not be attributed to a sudden tempest. It seemed
incredible that a unit of Spain's navy had been vanquished by a
contemptible pirate ship. But at last that supposition had to be
regarded as a fact.

About that time serious riots broke out in Barcelona. Every
available Spanish destroyer was dispatched to that port to assist in
quelling the disorder. Unable to police her territorial waters of
the Rio del Oro, the Spanish Government, putting its pride in its
pocket, made a request to the British Admiralty that the destruction
of the pirate submarine should be undertaken by the British Navy.

The _Canvey_ received her wireless instructions to this effect at
noon. Without delay the awnings were furled, steam raised for
seventeen knots, and the anchor weighed. The knowledge that the
destroyers _Complex_ and _Calyx_ were under orders to leave Gibraltar
for the Rio del Oro coast was no small factor in determining the
_Canvey's_ hurried departure.

No longer need she to steam slowly, with a red ensign fluttering
aft, and her officers and crew rigged out like members of the humble
but all-important Mercantile Marine. With her hitherto concealed
guns showing their teeth and the white ensign streaming proudly to
the breeze, she could dash into the estuary of the Wad-el-Abuam,
summon the _Alerte_ to surrender, and in default send her to the
bottom for all time. But she must be first upon the scene. Should
her friendly rivals, the heavily-armed _Complex_ and _Calyx_, forestall
her, then the _Canvey's_ motto would be the single word, Ichabod.

Two hours after leaving St. Vincent, Lieutenant-Commander Raxworthy
was conferring with Broadmayne, who happened to be officer of the
watch, when the leading telegraphist approached, saluted, and
tendered a signal-pad.

The owner read the message. The corners of his mouth dropped.

"We're done out of a job, Broadmayne," he remarked. "The _Alerte's_
settled with."

"Our destroyers, sir?"

Raxworthy shook his head.

"Not an Andrew job this time," he replied. "Read this."

The message was a wireless signal _en clair_ as follows:


"From s.s. _Bronx City_ of Boston, Mass., from Accra to Lisbon.
Encountered pirate vessel _Alerte_ in lat. 19° 17' N., long. 18° 23'
W. _Alerte_ fired three rounds and attempted to close. _Bronx City_
ported helm, striking _Alerte_ amidships. _Alerte_ sank in three
minutes. Four survivors. Am proceeding.--ADAMS. Master."


"That Yankee's in luck," observed Lieutenant Commander Raxworthy.
"He stands to rake in thirty thousand pounds. Carry on," he added,
addressing the leading telegraphist. "Copies to wardroom, gunroom,
and mess-deck."

In a few minutes the "buzz" was all over the ship. The feeling of
disappointment had a consoling feature. The _Canvey_ would be ordered
home to be put out of commission, and that meant the bluejackets'
highly-prized privilege--paying off leave, or "leaf" as the "matloe"
insists on calling it.

To settle the matter, an Admiralty wireless was received announcing
that operations against the pirate submarine were to cease
forthwith; vessels concerned were to proceed to their respective
bases.



CHAPTER XX

THE AFFAIR OF THE _BRONX CITY_


"THERE'S that _Candide_ asking for trouble, sir," replied Pengelly, as
he entered the captain's cabin. "We've just intercepted a message
saying she's leaving St. Vincent to-day."

"She's been reporting her movements long enough," said Captain Cain.
"We'll see what we can do. We'll have to shift from here in any
case. We'll find a suitable cubby-hole somewhere down the coast,
even if we have to try the Nigerian backwater. One good haul,
Pengelly, and we'll pack up and share the proceeds."

"We've done nothing much to write home about since we came south,"
grumbled the second in command. "Sending a Dago destroyer to the
bottom doesn't put shot in our locker."

"Quite so," agreed Cain. "That's why I'm anxious to nab the _Candide_.
Pass the word to Mr. Barnard that I want to be under way in an
hour's time--just before high water."

When Cain came on deck all preparations were complete, except for
breaking out the anchor. The _Alerte_ was riding to the flood tide.
The mud flats on either side of the estuary were covered. The air
was hot, sultry and still. Outside, the surf thundered heavily on
the bar.

At five knots the _Alerte_ headed seawards, scraping past the
submerged wreckage of the _Villamil_ to starboard and the island to
port, where the now-abandoned signal-station alone remained as a
visible reminder of the pirate submarine's brief and financially
disappointing sojourn in the estuary of the Wad-el-Abuam.

Just before two bells in the afternoon watch, smoke was observed on
the southern horizon. Twenty minutes later the dark grey hull of a
fairly big steamer emerged from the patches of haze.

"She's the _Candide_ right enough," declared Cain. "Clear away the
gun, my lads. One more hooker and our job's done.... No colours yet,
Mr. Barnard. We'll let 'em have a good sight of the Jolly Roger in a
brace of shakes. Pick your boarding-party, Mr. Pengelly. See that
everything's ready in the boat."

The two vessels were approaching on their respective courses which,
if adhered to, would enable the stranger to pass a good half-mile on
the _Alerte's_ port side. The pirate submarine held on in order to
avoid arousing suspicion on the part of the stranger.

Suddenly Pengelly, who had been keeping the approaching craft under
observation through a pair of powerful binoculars, turned to his
superior.

"She's a Yankee, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "She's flying the Stars and
Stripes."

"Ay," agreed Cain, with a grin. "And there's the name _Bronx City_ on
her bows as large as life. Yankee colours and Yankee name don't turn
a Belgian tramp into a United States hooker. I'm too old a bird to
be caught with chaff.... Starboard a bit, Quartermaster... at that!"

The eyes of the signalman, the gun's crew and the seamen standing
aft with the rolled-up skull and cross-bones already toggled to the
halyards, were all fixed expectantly upon the skipper of the pirate
submarine as he stood at the extreme end of the port side of the
bridge.

Captain Cain raised his right hand. At the signal the black flag was
broken out, the International ID hoisted at the fore, while an
instant later a shot whizzed across the stranger's bows.

The warning was promptly acted upon. The intercepted craft reversed
engines, lost way and then came to a stop. The Stars and Stripes
remained fluttering in the faint breeze.

Promptly Pengelly and his men pushed off to the prize, under cover
of the _Alerte's_ six-inch gun. Before the boat ran alongside the
stranger, the latter's accommodation-ladder had been lowered.

Pistol in hand, Pengelly, followed by his men, swarmed up the
swaying ladder. At the gangway, supported by several officers and
crew stood a tall, hatchet-faced man in white drill uniform and with
his peaked cap tilted well over his left eye.

"What in the name of tarnation thunder do you want?" he demanded.
"Cocktails, lime-juice or milk? If you do, you won't get--so quit."

Pengelly realised that Cain had made a mistake. The vessel was not
the _Candide_ disguised, but the _Bronx City_, registered and owned in
the United States. But having boarded her, Pengelly had no intention
of returning ignominiously to the _Alerte_.

"No quitting this time, skipper," he replied firmly. "I'm not here
to argue--this is my persuader."

He touched the barrel of his automatic with his left hand and then
pointed to the _Alerte_, which was still closing the prize.

"Guess you'll swing for this," exclaimed the captain of the _Bronx
City_.

"More ways than one of killing a cat," retorted Pengelly. "Now,
you--officers and men--for'ard you go and keep quiet, or it'll be
the worse for you."

Shepherded by half a dozen of the _Alerte's_ armed boarding-party, the
crew of the Yankee were made to go for'ard. Pengelly turned to the
Old Man.

"I don't know your tally," he remarked.

"Cap'n Hiram Adams is my name," replied the skipper of the _Bronx
City_. "Guess people know me from Quebec round the Horn and up to
Seattle and on this side of the herring-pond, too, I reckon. Hope
you're wiser."

"I am," rejoined Pengelly curtly. "Now let me see your papers."

Accompanied by the prize-master and followed by two of the _Alerte's_
hands, Captain Adams went to his cabin, unlocked a safe and produced
the necessary documents.

Pengelly's eyes opened with astonished satisfaction. The _Bronx City_,
a twin-screw boat, had a rich cargo. She had come from Beira with a
heavy consignment of gold from Lisbon. At Accra she had picked up a
thousand barrels of palm oil. Amongst other articles enumerated on
her manifest were ivory and ostrich feathers. In addition to her
cargo, she carried nine Portuguese passengers--residents of Beira
and Quilimane--on their way to Lisbon.

Unable to decide what was to be done, Pengelly ordered one of the
hands to semaphore the _Alerte_ and inform Captain Cain of the
identity of the prize and the nature of her cargo.

Back came the reply: "Stand fast. Am coming on board."

Cain lost no time in so doing. He was far more perturbed than was
his second in command. He had gone against his resolution not to
molest a United States ship. He had done so in all good faith--if
such a term can be applied to rank piracy--but the fact remained
that he had fired upon a vessel flying the Stars and Stripes.

Long before the _Alerte's_ second cutter came alongside the _Bronx
City_, Cain had made up his mind as to the course to pursue.

Ascending the accommodation-ladder, he made his way to the bridge
where Captain Hiram Adams was standing under guard.

"I am sorry, Cap'n Adams," said Cain, after he had requested
Pengelly to introduce him; "there's been a mistake on my part."

"Sure thing," replied the Yankee skipper. "But I calculate there
ain't no darned mistake about that."

He pointed to the skull and cross-bones flying from the _Alerte's_
ensign-staff.

"There isn't," agreed Cain, with a disarming smile. "The mistake was
entirely upon my part. I took you for the _Candide_. S'pose you
haven't spoken her?"

"Nope."

"She's doubtless skulking at St. Vincent, scared stiff and afraid to
meet me," continued the pirate. "Well, Cap'n Adams, I'm not going to
do you any harm. I'm not going to touch an ounce of your cargo----"

"But, sir," interrupted Pengelly, holding out the ship's papers.
"Look here."

Cain gave a quick glance through their contents. Most of the cargo,
including the gold, was Portuguese property. It was a great
temptation.

"I know my business, Mr. Pengelly," he said sternly. "Now, Cap'n
Adams, to resume. You'll be free to resume your voyage in a few
days. In my own interests I am reluctantly compelled to employ you
for my own protection. If you give no trouble you'll receive none.
Is that clear?"

Captain Hiram Adams nodded. A grim smile spread over his lean
features. After all, he was coming out lightly. His ship was not to
be sunk; his cargo was to remain intact.

"Guess it's your funeral--not mine," he replied. "Get busy!"

Cain proceeded to get busy. His first step was to send for the _Bronx
City's_ wireless operator.

As soon as the fictitious message announcing the ramming and sinking
of the _Alerte_ had been sent out, Cain ordered the operator below,
locked the door of the wireless cabin, and placed an armed guard
outside.

"Gee! Guess you're some lineal descendant of Ananias, Cap'n!"
exclaimed the master of the _Bronx City_ admiringly. "Reckon you'd
make a pile in Wall Street in next to no time."

Cain's next step was to place Pengelly with five men in charge of
the _Bronx City_, and to order the chief and second officers of the
latter on board the _Alerte_.

"Just as a matter of form, Cap'n Adams," he remarked: "it will save
a heavy strain on your steward's department.... Now, Mr. Pengelly,
keep station four cables astern of me, if you please; speed twelve
knots. Under no consideration, should we sight another craft, will
the _Bronx City_ communicate."

The pirate captain returned to the _Alerte_. If the misleading
wireless message "went down," then the _Alerte_ had yet another lease
of life and activity. The possible presence of British and foreign
warships off the Rio del Oro was a danger which he fully
appreciated. Once the coast was clear of that type of craft he could
prey on merchantmen during the next few weeks with comparative
impunity. He was very keen to snap up the hitherto much-advertised
_Candide_.

He felt considerably elated over the _Bronx City_ affair. His
magnanimity would be an asset in his favour. His discrimination in
refusing to plunder a cargo carried under the Stars and Stripes
would show that he was not a wild dog at large. Altogether, he was
very pleased with himself.

For the rest of the day the _Alerte_, with the _Bronx City_ keeping
demurely in her wake, kept a southerly course. As night fell she
stood in towards the coast, sighting land soon after dawn. Ahead lay
the Bahia Arenas, an enclosed anchorage nearly ten miles in length
and averaging one in breadth, with an extreme depth of fourteen
fathoms. Separated from the Atlantic by a long low, sandy island, it
received the Faltuba River, a fairly deep stream meandering between
banks of mangroves and bounded for miles by miasmic swamps.

Years ago the Portuguese had attempted to convert Bahia Arenas into
a commercial port. They built a stone fort, wharves and huts. The
experiment was a failure. They had reckoned without the deadly
climate. It was healthy enough for vessels lying at anchor in the
sandy bay, but no European could for any length of time withstand
the pestilential air that rose from the mangroves. The fort fell
into decay, the wharves rotted. When in course of time the French
took over the country between Cape Blanco and British Gambia, they
sedulously avoided any scheme to open out the Faltuba River, and
consequently no shipping had occasion to use Bahia Arenas for
commercial purposes.

The entrance was an easy one. Even at low springs there were
eighteen feet of water on the bar, with an additional height of
twelve feet at high water.

Once inside, the _Alerte_ signalled to the _Bronx City_ to heave to.
Captain Cain boarded the American and took charge of the bridge.

"I am going to run your ship aground, Cap'n," he announced to the
Yankee skipper. "You'll come to no harm. The mud's soft. You'll come
off before next springs--say in a week's time. By then, we shall be
miles away."

Captain Hiram Adams made no audible comment. He merely put his
tongue in his cheek.

Two miles up the river and hidden from the sea by a spur of high
ground thickly covered with coco-palms, Captain Cain ordered the
quartermaster of the _Bronx City_ to put her helm hard-a-port.

At a speed of about five knots, the ship ran aground on the
starboard side of the river, ploughing through the soft mud for
quite her own length before coming to a dead stop. There she lay, on
an even keel, with her bows within a hundred yards of the bluff of
hard ground.

"You're lying nicely, Cap'n," observed Cain, as he prepared to
withdraw the prize-crew. "I've taken the liberty to remove certain
essentials of your wireless; but I'll do my level best to send the
stuff along to your nearest agents."

Returning on board the _Alerte_, Cain's first act was to send for her
wireless operator.

"Any signals from the _Candide_?" he inquired.

"None, sir," was the reply. "I've had the 'phones on almost
continuous-like since midnight."

"Well, carry on," rejoined the captain, paying no heed to the man's
carefully-worded complaint.

"Unfeeling swine!" muttered the operator, as he made his way back to
the wireless cabin. "Me carry on after sixteen hours' trick? Not
much."



CHAPTER XXI

MUTINY


"HE'S safe enough, Pengelly," remarked Cain, indicating the stranded
_Bronx City_. "Any trouble?"

"None whatever, sir," replied his subordinate. "Old Adams was as
good as gold after you had explained matters."

"'Fraid we've missed the _Candide_, curse her," said the pirate
captain. "We'll have to keep a look-out for something else. I've
warned the operator. Well, take over now, Pengelly. I'm going to
have a few hours' sleep. Call me if anything occurs."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Pengelly.

Cain went to his cabin, locked the door, and with the exception of
kicking off his shoes, turned in "all standing."

He had had a fairly strenuous time of late. He did not spare his
crew, nor did he spare himself, but he forgot the important fact
that he could go for long periods without rest and sleep, whereas
most of the hands could not.

In less than a minute he was sound asleep.

A quarter of an hour later, Pengelly, accompanied by a couple of
men, tiptoed to the door. He listened. Cain was breathing heavily in
a sound slumber. The second in command bent down and peered through
the keyhole. The electric light was burning. He could see nothing of
the captain, since his range of vision was limited by the smallness
of the keyhole. Above the door was a lowered ventilator. Cautiously,
Pengelly stopped the opening with a damp cloth. Then he signed to
one of the men.

The fellow applied a rubber tube to the keyhole. At the other end of
the tube was a bag containing chloroform. For several minutes the
suffocating fumes were being pumped into the cabin.

"'Nough, if you don't want to snuff him out," declared the man.

"Sure he's insensible?" asked Pengelly anxiously.

"Like a noo-born babby," replied the fellow confidently.

"Good enough," was the response. "Down with the door. Got lashings
ready?"

The two seamen put their shoulders to the steel panel. It gave
slightly, but the lock held in spite of reiterated efforts.

"Get a sledge-hammer," ordered Pengelly impatiently, as he toyed
with a belaying-pin. A few blows with the heavy hammer shattered the
lock. Pengelly, followed by more of the crew, rushed in. Cain, with
a dazed look on his face, and making a gurgling sound as he strove
for breath, was sitting up in his bunk with an automatic in his
hand.

Without a word the captain levelled the weapon and pressed the
trigger. There was a deafening report. The bullet, missing
Pengelly's head by an inch, flattened itself against the steel
bulkhead.

Before Cain could fire again, Pengelly sprang forward and brought
the belaying-pin down upon the pirate captain's skull.

"Turn on the ventilating fan, one of you," ordered the chief
mutineer. "Place reeks like a slaughter-house. Carry him on deck.
He's not dead. He'll be more useful to us alive. Pass a lashing
round his ankles, and when he comes to, see that he's properly
lashed-up."

They bore the body of the unconscious Cain on deck, where the rest
of the crew were assembled.

Of the two men--Cain and Pengelly--the hands preferred Cain. He
possessed certain qualities that appealed to the crowd of lawless
rascals. Pengelly did not. But it was the affair of the _Bronx City_
that had enabled Pengelly to prevail upon the crew to mutiny. They
could not understand why Cain refrained from looting her valuable
cargo--why he should waste precious time in bringing the prize into
Bahia Arenas when the _Candide_ was somewhere south of Las Palmas and
likely to fall an easy prey to the _Alerte_. The chance of capturing
the _Candide_ had gone, they decided. The _Bronx City_ remained.

"We'll have the gold," declared Pengelly to the mustered crew.
"We'll take it up the river and bury it. Then all that remains to be
done is to take the _Alerte_ to within a few miles of St. Louis--or
Bathurst, if more are in favour of it--scuttle her and take to the
boats. We'll have to pitch a plausible yarn and get sent home as
shipwrecked mariners. Then, in due course, we recover the gold and
share out."

"How about the ransom for that Admiralty inspector bloke we
kidnapped?" demanded one of the crew.

"And the __Cap Hoorn__ loot?" added another.

Pengelly assured them that they would all have equal shares in the
plunder. In his own mind he felt certain that they would not.
Already he counted upon getting hold of the booty entrusted to the
late Captain Silas Porthoustoc. He wasn't altogether too sure about
Jasper Chamfer's ransom. For a considerable time he had harboured a
suspicion that Cain was feathering his own nest with the money.

"Man and arm boats," he ordered. "We'll want every available hand
for this job. We've got to gut the Yankee hooker and bury the stuff
before dawn."

Into the boats tumbled the swarm of ruffians. Discipline had gone by
the board. During Cain's regime every evolution had been performed
with man-of-war smartness. Now Jack was as good as his master.

Alongside the stranded _Bronx City_ ran the boats. Armed men, cursing
and frantically brandishing their automatic pistols, swarmed up her
sides. Without any ceremony, Captain Hiram Adams was made to hand
over the keys of the strong-room. The American crew were driven
for'ard and secured in the forepeak. Then the work of looting began.
There was no method about the procedure. The pirates rifled
indiscriminately. The strong-room door was forced and the gold-dust
taken on deck, but not before a large quantity of the precious metal
had found its way into the pockets of individual members of the
_Alerte's_ crew. The ivory being in bulk and too large to be
conveniently hidden by the finders, was dumped into the boats. The
American officers' quarters were invaded and their belongings either
stolen or strewn all over the deck. The passengers were insulted,
threatened and robbed; while, to make matters worse, the pirates
broached several casks of rum, and having drunk as much as they
could carry--and more--they wantonly allowed the rest of the spirit
to run to waste.

"Best batten the Yanks down and fire the ship," suggested one
drunken rascal. "Dead men tell no tales. How about it, Cap'n
Pengelly?"

Pengelly objected. He shrank from work of that kind, not because he
possessed any strong degrees of humanity, but because he feared the
consequences.

"They gave us no trouble," he said. "The ship's hard and fast
aground. She can't signal to any vessel in the offing. Let her
alone. We'll get the stuff up the river and hide it."

Unsteadily, the besotted pirates dropped into the two deeply-laden
boats and rowed back to the _Alerte_.

Cain, who had been left in charge of Barnard and a couple of hands,
had recovered consciousness. Pengelly, after giving one furtive
glance at his former partner, ascended the bridge ladder.

"Look alive, lads!" he shouted. "Get the booty aboard!"

"What for?" bawled one of the crew. "If we've got to land the swag
what's the use of unloading the boats and loading 'em up again?
Useless work, I calls it."

Instead of insisting upon his orders being carried out, Pengelly
began to explain the reason.

"Don't you see that the people of the _Bronx City_ are watching us?"
he replied. "If they see that we are towing the loaded boats up the
river, they'll guess we're hiding the plunder ashore. Whip it
aboard. It's worth the extra work."

"Then do it yourself," retorted the mutineer. "We've had enough
back-breaking jobs lately. 'Sides, what odds if the Yanks do spot
us?"

His protest was upheld by several others. Marchant and half a dozen
of the hands who were not so drunk as the rest tried to convince
them of the soundness of Pengelly's order.

For some moments the dispute threatened to develop into a free
fight, until Pengelly, fearful lest the objectors should gain the
upper hand in a physical contest, bade the gunner pass the boats
astern to be taken in tow.

The anchor was weighed and at four knots--more speed would have
resulted in the swamping of the heavily-laden boats--the _Alerte_
ascended the river.

Almost as soon as the pirate submarine had disappeared from view,
the imprisoned officers and crew of the _Bronx City_ were released by
the Portuguese passengers.

Captain Hiram Adams' first step was to assure himself that his ship
had not been crippled beyond being run aground. To his delight he
found that beyond the damage caused by the looters in their work of
plunder and the removal of certain wireless essentials, the Bronx
City was unharmed. He had given a shrewd and correct guess as to the
reason of the pirates' return visit. He had summed up Cain as a man
of his word, who was in consequence not responsible for the orgy of
plunder. Therefore, he concluded, that there had been an "almighty
bust-up," and that Cain had been supplanted by the loose-lipped,
spineless Pengelly.

Captain Adams had made several trips up the Mississippi as far as
Memphis. He had had many experiences of running aground the soft
mudbanks that fringe the frequently-shifting channel of that
enormous waterway. He was now going to put that knowledge to
practical use.

"Say, how long will it take for a full head of steam?" he inquired
of the chief engineer.

"I guess an hour," replied that worthy, knowing that the fires had
not been drawn when the ship took the ground. "Mebbe less."

"Then get busy," rejoined the Yankee skipper.

The chief went below with his assistant and firemen. Presently
volumes of smoke poured from the Bronx's City smoke-stack.

While steam was being raised, Captain Hiram Adams ordered a
kedge-anchor to be laid out in the stream, and the stout wire hawser
attached to it to be led aft, so that the angle made by the keel of
the ship and the wire was roughly forty-five degrees.

As soon as the chief engineer reported that the pressure gauges
registered a sufficient head of steam, the skipper telegraphed for
full-speed ahead with the port engine.

Completely mystified, the chief obeyed, wondering what possessed the
Old Man to go full ahead with one engine that would tend to drive
the ship farther into the mud-bank.

Nor was the chief the only one puzzled. In fact, some of the crew
wondered whether recent events had not touched the skipper's brain.
And their wonderment increased when Captain Hiram Adams, with a huge
cigar jutting at an acute angle from the corner of his mouth,
descended from the bridge.

"Guess those darned cargo-lifters won't be comin' down before
morning, Mr. Kelly," he remarked to his chief officer. "We'll be
quit before then. Set an anchor-watch and inform me if anything
happens."

"And the engines?" inquired Mr. Kelly.

"Full ahead all the time," replied the skipper, and without offering
any explanation, he went to his cabin to snatch a few hours' sleep.

All the rest of that day and throughout the night the port engine
kept up its tireless task. The massive propeller in going ahead was
constantly throwing aft volumes of water with quantities of mud held
in suspension. Slowly but surely the soft slime was being sucked
away from the vessel's port bilge, thus making a trench into which,
when the time came, the _Bronx City_ would slide sideways.

Just before the first streaks of the brief tropical dawn appeared
over the dark outlines of the mangroves, Captain Hiram Adams
appeared on deck.

It was now close on high water. Although the tide was still making,
there was a considerable quantity of turgid fresh water coming
downstream.

Giving instructions to the chief officer to bring a strain upon the
wire hawser, the skipper telegraphed for the port engines to stop
and the starboard for "Full Astern." The hull of the _Bronx City_
quivered. For a brief, anxious period her fate hung in the balance.
Then, with a squelching sound as tons of shiny black mud were
shifted bodily, the vessel slithered into the trench and began to
gather sternway in midstream, held only by the stern kedge.

With the least possible delay the wire hawser was hove taut and the
kedge broken out. Then, at "Easy ahead," the _Bronx City_ made for the
open sea.

Meanwhile the _Alerte_ had gone upstream, arriving well before
nightfall at an anchorage five miles above the spot where she had
left her latest capture. Here Pengelly, accompanied by two of the
hands, went ashore, the new captain taking with him a prismatic
compass.

Selecting a suitable spot, he took bearings on three conspicuous
objects, making the necessary data in his pocket-book. His
assistants watched the operation with semi-torpid interest. They had
a vague idea of what he was about, which was what Pengelly wanted.

Returning on board, he mustered the crew. They crowded round in a
disorderly mob--a striking contrast to the orderly way in which they
fell in under Captain Cain's orders.

"I've fixed the spot for burying the booty, my lads!" he announced.
"The sooner we get to work the quicker we'll be able to make
ourselves scarce. In a week the place will be overgrown----"

"Then 'ow the blazes are we to find it again?" interrupted one of
the audience.

"Quite a natural, intelligent question," rejoined Pengelly. "I've
taken a three-point bearing. With either a sextant or a compass it
will be as easy as winking to fix the spot to a yard. This is a
mutual concern, my lads, so I'll chalk up the angles so that you can
make a note of them in case anything happens to me. That's fair
enough, isn't it? Now, fall in half a dozen of you with spades, nip
ashore and begin digging like Hades. Yes, the ivory won't hurt if
it's well covered with canvas."

The digging party landed, while others, still under the effect of
the rum, proceeded to unload the booty from the boats. While the
operation was in progress, Pengelly chalked the required information
on the bulkhead of the dummy fo'c'sle--only the bearings he wrote
down for the information of the crew differed materially from those
he had noted in his pocket-book.

Then he went ashore to watch the progress of the work of burying the
loot.

"Wot abaht these 'ere austridge feathers?" inquired one of the men,
holding up a bunch for inspection.

"Share them out," replied Pengelly. "When we make port they'll fetch
a tidy price. They won't keep here... Pile the earth up, men. It's
bound to sink a bit. Look alive. It's not healthy to be hanging
about ashore with this mist rising."

While the new captain was superintending operations on the river
bank, Barnard, who with two men had been detailed to keep an eye on
the deposed skipper, came across to where Cain was lying on deck
under the bridge.

"I wouldn't that this happened for worlds, sir," he remarked to his
former chief. "I couldn't warn you. They'd have let daylight into me
if I had. And these two men--Davidge and Cross--they are proper
jonnick. If we've the rope's end of a chance to get you out of this
mess, sir, we'll do it."

Cain smiled grimly. The effects of the chloroform, never very heavy,
had worn off, but the blow with the belaying-pin had weakened him
considerably.

"I see they've looted the _Bronx City_," he remarked bitterly. "That's
the limit as far as they are concerned. Look here, Barnard. Do you
think you three can get me into a boat to-night and row down to the
_Bronx City_? I'd give myself up if only to turn the tables on that
doublefaced Pengelly."

The bo'sun shook his head.

"Can't be done, sir," he replied. "Ten to one Pengelly would search
her, and where would we be then? 'Sides, I've no liking to run the
risk of shoving my head through a noose when there's a chance of
steering clear of it. Never fear, sir; the hands'll be wanting you
back in command afore long. Pengelly, he's got no hold on them.
'Sides, he's no deep-sea navigator. He's all right in home waters,
I'll allow, but here-----"

Mr. Barnard concluded his opinion with an expressive gesture.

"And he knows little or nothing about submarine work," added Cain.

"He thinks he does, sir," said the bo'sun. "To hear him talk about
what he can do with the _Alerte_ submerged, you'd think he'd been at
it nearly all his life."

"I wouldn't care to trust him to take the _Alerte_ down," declared
Cain. "And I doubt whether there are others on board who would."

"Must be moving, sir," interrupted the bo'sun. "The boats are coming
off from the beach. I'll sound some of the hands. There ought to be
enough of us to scupper that skunk Pengelly, but it's no use trying
to talk sense to them while they're three sheets in the wind."

As soon as the new pirate captain came over the side, he gave orders
for the boats to be hoisted and watches set for the night,
explaining that the latter precaution was necessary owing to the
possibility of the ship swinging on to the mud when the tide
changed. He then had Cain taken below and placed in the compartment
previously occupied by Jasper Chamfer. The ex-skipper's bonds were
removed, food and drink were placed in his cell, together with a
mattress and bedding.

Pengelly was considerably anxious concerning his treatment of Cain.
He feared him even though the late skipper was safely under lock and
key. There was always a chance of the hands turning against him,
Pengelly, and demanding that Cain should again assume command. While
the deciding factor that prompted Pengelly to keep his captive on
board was the fact that Cain alone knew how to control the _Alerte_
when submerged.

At dawn the hands were turned out and piped to breakfast. Most of
them had slept off the brutish effect of unlimited quantities of
rum. One or two were in a happy state, others inclined to be
quarrelsome and pugnacious. But on the whole they were in fair
possession of their faculties and were only too ready to get under
way.

As soon as the motors were started up and the anchor out, the _Alerte_
was headed down-stream, Pengelly being on the bridge and Marchant,
the gunner, conning the ship from the bows as she threaded her way
down the intricate and tortuous channel.

Presently Pengelly leant over the bridge-rails.

"Mr. Barnard," he exclaimed, loud enough for the watch on deck to
hear. "Bring up the prisoner, and place him under the poop in charge
of a couple of hands. Take all precautions. I hold you responsible
for his safe custody."

Taking Davidge and Cross, the men who had signified their readiness
to stand-by the ex-captain, the bo'sun went below and unlocked the
door of Cain's cell.

"My orders are to take you on deck, Cap'n Cain," he announced.
"S'pose you don't want to jump overboard?"

"Not under present conditions," replied the pirate.

"Nor to give any trouble?"

"There'll be enough before long, without my having to cause any,"
rejoined Cain grimly. "Why do you ask?"

"Pengelly's orders were that I'm responsible for you," replied
Barnard. "I must lash your hands, sir. A mere matter of form. I
won't give your wrists a tight nip, and if anything happens as
renders it necessary, sir, I'll set you free in a brace o' shakes."

"That's all right, Barnard," said the ex-captain reassuringly. "I
won't kick; for the present I'll knuckle under."

Meekly he submitted to have his wrists secured behind his back, then
preceded by Davidge and followed by Cross, with the bo'sun bringing
up the rear, Cain made his way to the conning-tower hatchway.

Pengelly watched him furtively. Cain gave no glance in the direction
of the bridge. Several of the men on deck stood to attention, a
compliment that Pengelly did not fail to notice. None of the hands
paid that mark of deference to him, he recalled.

At that moment the _Alerte_ was rounding the last bend in the river
between her and the spot where the _Bronx City_ had been run aground.

Suddenly Marchant shouted:

"She's sheered off, by thunder!"

A few seconds later Pengelly had an uninterrupted view of the next
reach. Only too true was the gunner's announcement. Not only had the
_Bronx City_ got afloat; she was no longer in the river, nor in the
spacious Bahia Arenas.

"That's kippered the contract," growled Marchant, who had abandoned
his post for'ard and had gained the bridge. "We ought to have
scuppered her. She'll report us and there'll be a swarm of light
cruisers and destroyers after us in less than no time."

"She can't use her wireless," said Pengelly.

"Never said she could," retorted the gunner. "She'll speak the first
ship she meets and get her to use her wireless. There'll be French
cruisers waitin' for us off the Senegal and the south'ard, an'
Spaniards up the coast--British destroyers, too, I guess. An' we
can't bust across to South America--we ain't got enough oil."

"What do you propose, then?" asked Pengelly helplessly.

"Propose?" echoed the gunner contemptuously. "Propose--ain't you
supposed to be the skipper? If you don't know what's to be done, who
does? Cain, of course; you'd best ask him."

The ex-captain on his way aft heard the dialogue. He shrugged his
shoulders and looked meaningly at the bo'sun.

"Pengelly'll part brass rags with every one on board afore very
long, sir," whispered Barnard.

The _Alerte_ was now ploughing across the bay. The sandy island
enclosing the mouth of the anchorage effectually concealed the open
sea from sight, although in a short time the entrance would afford
an almost interrupted view of the offing. Still, Pengelly gave no
indication of the course he proposed to pursue.

Descending from the bridge, the gunner gathered several of the hands
round him. Ignoring the new captain entirely, Marchant pointed out
the additional risks they were running by reason of the escape of
the _Bronx City_.

"Cap'n Cain's our man," declared one of the hands.

"No, he isn't," retorted the gunner. "He ought to be, I admit. That
horse-marine on the bridge there ain't good for nothin'. But if Cain
gets the upper hand, then some of us are in for a rough time. No,
our best plan is to go in chase of the _Bronx City_ and overhaul her
afore she gets a chance to speak another craft."

"And then----?" asked one of the men.

"Then," continued the gunner, "we'll nab her, take all necessary
precautions with her crew, abandon the _Alerte_ and carry the Bronx
City across to Brazil. There's no need to bring her into port. We'll
scuttle her and take to the boats, pitch a yarn to the British
Consul an' get sent home as shipwrecked mariners. How's that?"

The suggestion met with acclamation. Marchant reascended the bridge
ladder.

"This ain't a one-man show, Mr. Pengelly," he said meaningly. "It's
the wish of the hands that we recapture the _Bronx City_ afore she
lets the cat out of the bag."

"Very good," agreed Pengelly.



CHAPTER XXII

A STERN CHASE


DEAR BROADMAYNE,--I suppose by the time you receive this you will
have had a hand in sending the _Alerte_ to her long, last home.
Really, I don't envy your job, but it will be interesting to hear
how it happened when you return home, which I suppose will be before
very long.

"We--old Primmer and I--had quite an exciting time at Mousehole. We
found Porthoustoc's swag, but hanged if the Customs and police
didn't butt in, and we spent a night in the cells at Penzance before
the admiral at Devonport got us released! I'll tell you all about it
in due course.

"I've received the insurance money for the poor old _Ibex_, and I'm in
treaty with a fellow at Burnham for the purchase of a smart little
motorcruiser--paraffin engines this time, so perhaps you'll find an
opportunity and help me bring her round.--Cheerio, yours ever,
                                         "ROLLO VYSE."


Sub-Lieutenant Broadmayne smiled as he replaced this missive in his
pocket. The _Alerte_ affair had already seen Rollo twice under arrest.
... Perhaps old Vyse would have a third similar experience in
connection with the pirate... Hardly likely, though. The _Alerte_ was
finished and done with. His chum was wrong in his surmise. The
unenviable job had been carried out without any direct action on the
part of H.M.S. _Canvey_.

The decoy-ship was homeward bound. She had put into the Canaries to
pick up her mails and had proceeded. Already the famous Peak of
Teneriffe was dipping beneath the southern horizon. Broadmayne,
leaning over the taffrail, was in a pensive mood as he watched the
water froth in the ship's wake.

Even as he looked, the ship began to circle to starboard. There was
nothing very unusual about that. Possibly she was giving way to an
approaching craft. But when the turning movement continued, the Sub
began to show an interest in the matter. Still more did he--as did a
hundred others--when the _Canvey_, having turned sixteen points,
steadied on her helm and began to retrace her course to the
south'ard.

Leaving the deserted poop, Broadmayne went for'ard. Groups of
curious ratings were discussing the seemingly unaccountable turn.
Several of the officers off duty, who were smoking on deck after
"seven-bell tea," were also in a state of perplexity over the
business.

It was not long before the secret was out and had spread the length
and breadth of the ship.

A wireless message had just been received, stating that, since
nothing had been reported of the s.s. _Bronx City_ following her
account of the destruction of the _Alerte_, the _Canvey_ was to
proceed in search of the American vessel, keeping a sharp
look-out on the coast as far south as the fifteenth parallel.

"Rotten stunt," grumbled the engineer-lieutenant, who was eagerly
looking forward to the _Canvey's_ return to Devonport--to an event
that would result in, amongst other things, the hoisting of a
garland between the ship's masts. "We were sent out here to chase a
pirate, not to act as nurse to a Yankee tramp."

"Well, why didn't she show up at Teneriffe or Funchal?" demanded
Allerton. "'Sides, something must have happened to her, or she'd
have wirelessed again."

"Bows stove in by the collision," suggested the
paymaster-lieutenant.

"But she reported she was proceeding," rejoined the engineer
officer. "Proceeding where? That's what I want to know."

"You'll probably find out, if we're here long enough," said
Broadmayne chaffingly. "It'll take six months or more to carry out
orders. We can't examine the coast in the dark. That means we'll
have to stand off every night and close the land at the same spot at
daybreak. 'Sides, there are hundreds of little harbours we'll have
to explore----"

"Oh, shut up, do!" interrupted the exasperated engineer-lieutenant.

For three days and nights the _Canvey_ ran south, speaking several
vessels, none of which could give any information concerning the
sought-for _Bronx City_.

During the morning of the fourth day, Broadmayne, who was officer of
the forenoon watch, received a report that a vessel's smoke was to
be seen on the port bow.

This was somewhat unusual, for off this part of the African coast
shipping gave the land a wide berth on account of the dangerous and
unlighted Lazarus Shoal. The _Canvey_ was, in point of fact, standing
in closer than prudence demanded, although in order to carry out her
instructions to watch the coast in the event of the _Bronx City_
having run aground, she had to run a certain amount of risk.

"What do you make of her?" asked Broadmayne of the yeoman of
signals, as the stranger's hull drew above the horizon.

"Flying Yankee colours, sir," replied the petty officer, after a
prolonged look through his telescope. "There's a double-barrelled
tally on her bows, though I can't make it out yet. She ain't 'arf
'opping it."

A few minutes later, for the two vessels were approaching each other
at an aggregate speed of twenty-eight knots, the yeoman of signals
exclaimed:

"Crikey, sir! She's the _Bronx City_!"

Dispatching a messenger to inform the captain, Broadmayne levelled
his binoculars upon the approaching vessel. As far as he could make
out, there was nothing wrong with her outward appearance. Her bows
were certainly not stove-in; which, considering she had claimed to
have rammed and sunk the _Alerte_, was what the Sub had a right to
expect. Her wireless aerials were in position.

Just as Lieutenant-Commander Raxworthy gained the bridge, a
three-flag hoist rose to the foremast head of the _Bronx City_:
INM--Chased by a privateer. Then, before the _Canvey_ could display
the answering pennant, the code flag over the letter E, signifying
that the following words were in plain spelling, fluttered in the
breeze.

"ALE----"

There was no need to complete the name.

"Sound off 'Action stations'!" ordered the owner.

Raxworthy formed a shrewd idea of what had occurred, but he was too
wary a skipper to leave much to chance. The approaching vessel bore
the name _Bronx City_. It might or might not be her rightful tally.
If, as might possibly be the case, the _Alerte_ had captured the
Yankee vessel, it was quite likely that the pirate submarine had
turned over her crew and armament to her prize. Or the _Bronx City_
might be the _Alerte_ disguised.

On the latter point Broadmayne was able to inform his skipper that
such was not the case. The _Alerte_, however cleverly camouflaged,
could not assume the length and lofty superstructure of the
approaching craft.

In double-quick time the _Canvey_ was cleared for action. The guns
were unmasked and trained upon the _Bronx City_. "Present use"
ammunition was brought up on deck and placed beside the
quick-firers, while the torpedo-tubes on the port side were charged
with their deadly missiles, ready at the first sign of aggression to
deliver a mortal blow at the huge target presented by the stranger's
hull.

The _Bronx City_ was still a mile off when a second vessel was sighted
a good five miles astern of her. Although she, too, was evidently
travelling fast, there was a noticeable absence of smoke from her
funnel.

Borrowing the signalman's telescope, Broadmayne had a good look at
her. He was bound to admit that the second stranger resembled the
pirate submarine. There were a few trifling alterations in her
appearance since the Sub had last seen her.

"She's the _Alerte_, sir," he declared confidently.
Lieutenant-Commander Raxworthy was on the horns of a dilemma. Should
the _Bronx City_ prove to be manned by a piratical crew and he allowed
her to go on her way while he headed off her supposed pursuer, the
opportunity of laying the former vessel by the heels would be lost.
On the other hand, if he stopped to examine the craft flying
American colours, the presumed _Alerte_ would seize the opportunity of
turning tail and disappearing. Again, he was not justified in
ordering a United States ship to heave to, for it might result in an
unpleasant international incident between the Government of Great
Britain and that sitting at Washington. Having been once tricked
completely by the _Alerte_, he was doubly cautious lest there be a
repetition of the ruse that had succeeded almost beyond belief.

At the captain's orders, a signalman taking up a conspicuous
position on the roof of the chart-house semaphored to the Bronx
City, suggesting that for her protection the American vessel should
turn sixteen points to port and follow the _Canvey_ at a distance of
ten cables astern.

To this the _Bronx City_ replied by the single word "Sure."

The two ships were now abeam of each other. The stranger in the
offing had turned and was retracing her course--additional evidence
that she was not an honest craft.

The lieutenant-commander of the _Canvey_ immediately rang down for
full speed. The chase--a stern one--had commenced.

"_Bronx City_ turning to port, sir," reported the officer of the
watch.

"Good!" ejaculated the skipper. "We'll drop her, of course, but it
shows she's jonnick. Ask her what she's been doing, Mr. Broadmayne."

The Sub told off a signalman to semaphore the _Bronx City_, which,
having completed her turning movement, was dead in the _Canvey's_
wake. For nearly half an hour the exchange of messages was
maintained at high pressure. Captain Adams told briefly all that was
necessary--the capture of the _Bronx City_ by the _Alerte_, and Cain's
considerate treatment; the detention in Bahia Arenas and the
_Alerte's_ broken promise in plundering the ship.

"Was Cain in command?" inquired Broadmayne, through the medium of
the hand-flags.

"Guess not," replied the Yankee skipper. "A mutiny, possibly.
Pengelly was in command when we were ransacked."

The Sub returned to the bridge and reported events. By this time the
_Alerte_ was less than three miles away, thanks to the superior
speed of the _Canvey_; while, on the other hand, the _Bronx City_,
unable to keep station, had dropped nearly that distance astern of
the British decoy-ship.

Raxworthy could have sunk the pirate submarine by gunfire with the
greatest ease, but he refrained. He wanted to head her into shallow
water before delivering the _coup de grâce_--unless she surrendered
first. He therefore ordered speed to be reduced to that of the
chase, the guns to be secured, and piped all hands to dinner.

Two bells in the afternoon watch found the relative positions of the
_Canvey_ and her chase unchanged. The _Bronx City_, in spite of the
_Canvey's_ reduced speed, was still dropping astern.

Realising that no useful purpose would be served by the Yankee ship
attempting to keep in company, the _Canvey_ signalled for her to
resume her former course, with the additional intimation that as the
_Bronx City's_ wireless was disabled, the _Canvey_ would report her
position to Teneriffe station.

Almost immediately upon receipt of the signal, the _Bronx City_
starboarded helm and dipped her ensign. Twenty minutes later she was
hull down away to the nor'ard.

The _Canvey_ now increased speed. There was no need for disguise.
Bravely her battle-ensigns streamed in the breeze, while her guns
were again manned and trained as far ahead as possible, ready, if
need be, to hurl their deadly and destructive missiles upon the
already doomed pirate submarine.

It was now a foregone conclusion that the _Alerte_ was doubling back
to her former anchorage in Bahia Arenas. She could not submerge
outside without going to the bottom, and since the depth without the
bar is everywhere not less than sixty fathoms, such a manoeuvre
would result in the submarine being crushed like an eggshell under
the terrific pressure of water. It was extremely doubtful whether
she would fight. Her solitary six-inch gun would be hopelessly
outmatched against the superior ordnance of her pursuer. Short of
taking to the boats and scuttling the _Alerte_, the pirates had no
alternative but to endeavour to reach the sandy bay and evade
detection by submerging.

Raxworthy was playing his own game. Apart from destroying the _Alerte_
by gunfire or torpedo, he could have headed her off-shore by reason
of the _Canvey's_ superior speed and carried her in the good
old-fashioned way by boarding. Such a measure, involving a certain
risk of casualties amongst the _Canvey's_ ship's company, would have
appealed to most of the men; but the lieutenant-commander had other
plans. He meant to compel the _Alerte_ to surrender if it were
possible. In any case, he wanted to take as many of the pirates as
possible prisoners. To slay ruthlessly was against his principles.
Prisoners, even if they were pirates captured red-handed, were
entitled to a fair trial, and in that event the onus of dealing with
them was removed from Raxworthy's shoulders.

At seven bells (3.30 p.m.) the _Canvey_ gained sufficiently to enable
one of her guns to fire a few yards wide of the chase.
Simultaneously, she hoisted a signal summoning the _Alerte_ to
surrender.

By the aid of glasses it was easy for the _Canvey's_ officers to see
most of what was going on on the deck of the pirate submarine.
Pengelly and the gunner could be discerned crouching on the bridge.
On the poop were several of the crew clamouring and arguing. Some of
them were evidently advocating taking to the boats. Most of them had
brought their personal belongings on deck, so that it looked as if
they had no intention of offering resistance.

At length the _Alerte_ starboarded helm in order to take the deep and
narrow passage over the bar. As she did so, Broadmayne noticed a
tall burly figure ascend the bridge, grasp the cowering Pengelly and
literally boot him down the ladder.

"Now, we'll have a run for our money, sir," remarked Broadmayne, to
the lieutenant-commander. "Cain's got his spoke in again!"



CHAPTER XXIII

CAIN RESUMES COMMAND


"UP aloft, one of you!" shouted Marchant. "See if the swine's in
sight."

The _Alerte_ was pitching as she faced the long Atlantic swell after
crossing the bar in pursuit of the _Bronx City_. A few--a very few--of
the crew were sober; the majority were befuddled in the transition
stage between drunkenness and sobriety; while four or five,
helplessly intoxicated, lay rolling in the scuppers.

One of the hands, pot-valiant, made an attempt to go aloft. Before
he had ascended half a dozen ratlines he slipped. Luckily for him,
the _Alerte_ was at the limit of her roll. Instead of dropping into
the sea he slithered helplessly round the aftershroud and subsided
heavily upon the gunner. The pair fell in a heap on deck. The
drunken seaman, none the worse for his involuntary descent, sat up
and looked around as if seeking applause. Marchant staggered to his
feet, his right shoulder dislocated.

Pengelly, from the bridge, saw the incident. It cheered him
considerably, for with Marchant rendered _hors de combat_ he was
able to reassert his lax authority on the undisciplined crew.

A seaman, less drunk than his predecessor, went aloft. Before he
reached the cross-trees he shouted, "There she lies--a point on our
port bow.

"Sure she's the _Bronx City_?" inquired Pengelly anxiously.

"Do you call me a liar?" shouted the lookout man in reply. "If I
says she's the Bronx, then she is. That's all about it."

With the oil-engines running "all out," the _Alerte_ stood in pursuit
of the fugitive. A couple of hours enabled her to gain on the Bronx
City to such an extent that the latter was barely six miles ahead.
At that rate, another hour and a half would enable the pirate
submarine to overhaul her prey.

Although Pengelly had no liking for Marchant, he was forced to admit
that the gunner's proposal to abandon the _Alerte_ and take the Bronx
City over to some obscure South American port was a sound one. The
question of fuel largely influenced his decision. The _Alerte's_ tanks
were seriously depleted; the _Bronx City's_ coal bunkers were
three-quarters full. It was on that account that Pengelly refrained
from opening fire upon the Yankee vessel, otherwise he could have
ended the chase half an hour ago.

At intervals, Pengelly raised his binoculars and watched the chase.
It was on one of these occasions that he noticed a faint blur of
smoke on the horizon at less than a degree to the left of the Bronx
City.

Cursing under his breath, the pirate called to the gunner to come on
the bridge. Marchant, his right shoulder swathed in bandages,
complied, grumbling and wincing as every step shot a sharp pain
through the injured part.

"There's another vessel," announced Pengelly. "She's coming this
way, I think. What's to be done?"

"Done?" repeated the gunner. "Why, collar the pair of 'em. We'll
make a fine haul, I'll swear."

"But if she's a warship?" objected the other.

"Is it likely?" rejoined Marchant. "What would a warship be doing on
this part of the coast? Seein' as Cain reported us sunk--say what
you like, that chap's got a head on 'im--there'll be none lookin'
for us. Where's that glass of yours?"

Steadying the telescope on the bridge-rail, the gunner, groaning
with the effort, bent his head and applied his eye to the
instrument.

"Tramp of sorts," he announced. "She's flying no colours. Odds are
the _Bronx City_'ll tip her the wink. That being so, we'll have to
send her to the bottom.... Yes, hang me, if she ain't closing."

For the next minute or so the gunner kept his eye glued to the
telescope. Suddenly he dropped the glass and sprang to his feet.

"She's a British cruiser, blast her!" he shouted. "Put about and leg
it, Pengelly. If she spots us, it's all UP!"

Without waiting for Pengelly to give the order, the quartermaster
put the wheel hard down. Round swept the _Alerte_, listing heavily to
port as she swung to starboard.

The hands on deck, surprised by the sudden change of course, were
clamouring to know why the pursuit had been abandoned.

"Why?" shouted the gunner. "'Cause we're being chased. No blessed
Dago destroyer this time, but a British cruiser. We'll have to be
mighty smart to dodge the white ensign."

"She's spotted us!" exclaimed Pengelly, in a high-pitched voice.
"The _Bronx City_ is slewing round, too. Confound Cain! If he'd
crippled the _Bronx City_ instead of just running her gently on the
mud, there'd have been none of this business."

"We'll be glad to have Cain on board before long," said the bo'sun,
who had joined Pengelly and the gunner on the bridge. "I reckon our
only chance is to submerge. Without Cain, how's it to be done? You
couldn't take her down, nor can I."

"Soundings are too deep for diving in any case," declared Pengelly.
"Seems to me we're holding her, even if we aren't gaining. What's
the time?"

"Close on one bell," replied the bo'sun.

"Time to make Bahia Arenas well before dark then," continued
Pengelly. "See here, Mr. Barnard, go aft and sound that swine Cain.
Don't tell him I sent you, but ask him if he'll take charge of the
ship for submerging."

The bo'sun departed on his errand. Presently he returned.

"Cap'n Cain says he'll consider the matter if you go and ask him
yourself," he announced.

"Then you'd better go," added Marchant.

"Not I," said Pengelly.

While the _Alerte_ held her own, Pengelly adhered to his resolution
not to eat humble pie. But when, in the course of the afternoon, the
pursuing vessel began to gain rapidly, he yielded to the
importunities of the gunner, the bo'sun, and the majority of the
crew.

"Look here, Trevorrick," he began, addressing his former partner and
skipper by the name by which he was known at Polkyll Creek; "'spose
we let bygones be bygones? Will you take charge of the ship and
submerge her when we make Bahia Arenas?"

Cain looked him straight in the face. Pengelly could not bear the
other's gaze. Unsteadily he averted his eves.

"I'll submerge when I'm captain of the _Alerte_ again, not before,"
replied Cain.

"Three cheers for Cap'n Cain!" shouted one of the hands, several of
whom had followed the deputation aft.

At that moment a plugged shell shrieked past the pirate submarine,
throwing up a huge column of spray as it ricochetted to strike the
surface of the water a good five hundred yards ahead of the ship.

Pengelly made no protest to the demonstration in favour of the
ex-captain. Followed by Marchant he returned to the bridge.

"Carry on, sir!" shouted half a dozen of the pirates.

Some one cast off the lashings that secured Cain's wrists. The
bo'sun slipped an automatic into his hand. With a grim smile, Cain
went forward and ascended the bridge ladder.

"Now then!" he exclaimed, sternly addressing the trembling Pengelly.
"Who's skipper now!"

"You are," admitted the thoroughly scared man. "For heaven's sake,
don't shoot!"

"Good lead is too precious to waste on rats," retorted Cain,
thrusting the automatic into his pocket. "Get down, you treacherous
swab!"

Pengelly began to descend the bridge-ladder, his progress materially
assisted by the application of the reinstated captain's boot. The
crew, notwithstanding their imminent peril, applauded lustily.

"Avast there!" shouted Captain Cain. "Shout when you're out of the
wood--not before. Strike and secure masts! Look lively, there!"

While most of the crew were engaged upon this task, Cain beckoned to
the bo'sun.

"Look here, Barnard!" he exclaimed in a low voice; "remove the
rapid-flooding valves from all the boats. Take one below; heave the
others overboard."

This the bo'sun did, unshipping a hinged plate that when secured by
two butterfly nuts rendered each boat watertight. When open, the
valves allowed the boats to take in water rapidly, so that their
natural buoyancy was destroyed and did not hinder the submergence of
the submarine. The solitary valve that was not thrown overboard was
placed below, under the conning-tower hatchway ladder.

"Well done, Mr. Barnard!" said Cain approvingly. "Now, tell Cross
and Davidge to go below and secure both the for'ard and after
hatches on the inside. Also tell Cross to inform the engine-room
staff from me that as soon as I ring down for 'Stop' they are to
come on deck through the conning-tower hatchway with all possible
speed. Is that clear?"

The bo'sun repeated his instructions and went off to see that they
were carried out. By the time he returned the crew had lowered and
secured the masts and funnel for diving and were standing by,
anxiously dividing their attention between the pursuing _Canvey_ and
their reinstated skipper's next order.

"All hands fall in in the waist!" shouted Cain.

The deck hands trooped to the place indicated, with the exception of
Davidge and Cross, who, acting under orders, were standing by the
valve actuating gear of the ballast tanks.

Deliberately, Cain thrust the telegraph indicators to stop, gave one
quick glance at the vessel in pursuit and descended from the bridge.

By this time the _Alerte_ was over the bar and about half a mile from
the land-locked shore. The _Canvey_, none too sure of the entrance,
had slowed down, the leadsman sounding as she cautiously smelt her
way in.

As soon as the men whose duty lay in the engine-room came on deck,
Cain made a slight imperceptible movement with his hand.
Unconcernedly, the bo'sun stepped to the wake of the
conning-tower and took three steps down the ladder. There he waited.

"Now, you treacherous, mutineering swine!" thundered Cain. "I'll
give you one minute to get your lifebelts. You're to choose between
being eaten by sharks or hanging by your necks in a British prison."

Before the astounded men could realise the significance of their
captain's words, Cain made for the only open hatchway. There he
stopped, his eyes roving whimsically over the dumbfounded men, a
supercilious smile lurking in his heavy bulldog features.

Marchant fumbled for his automatic. But for his injured shoulder he
might have achieved his object. The pistol cracked, the bullet
mushrooming on the armour-plated conning tower.

"Forty-five seconds more!" announced Cain, in cold, level tones.

The next instant Captain Cain disappeared from view. The
conning-tower hatch descended with a metallic clang.

With the closing of the last means of entering the hull of the
submarine the spell was broken. The crew, realising the fate that
awaited them, were seized with panic. Some began to struggle into
their cork lifebelts, others made a mad rush for the davit-boats, to
find to their consternation that they were no longer capable of
floating.

A shell, evidently of light calibre, struck the _Alerte_ a few feet
abaft the bows, demolishing the dummy fo'c'sle like a pack of cards.
It was fortunate for the men that they were either in the waist or
on the poop, for no one was hit; but the exploding missile warned
them that their pursuer was getting to work in earnest.

"Lower that cursed rag!" shrieked Pengelly, pointing to the skull
and cross-bones which, on the masts being lowered, the gunner in
reckless bravado had hoisted at the end of a boathook. "Has anybody
got anything that'll do for a white flag? No? Then, for heaven's
sake, some of you in the poop hold your hands up, or she'll blow us
to bits."

Several of the hands did so, while the signalman, clambering on the
bridge, frantically semaphored that the ship had surrendered.

Even as the message was being signalled, the _Alerte_ began to settle.
In less than half a minute she disappeared beneath the surface,
leaving the agitated water of the Bahia Arenas dotted with the heads
of her mutinous crew.

The pirate submarine _Alerte_ had made her final plunge.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE FATE OF THE PIRATE SUBMARINE


"BY the mark seven... Less a quarter... By the deep six!" chanted
the leadsman, as the _Canvey_ approached the bar.

"Starboard! Meet her at that!" ordered the lieutenant-commander,
telegraphing for speed to be still further reduced. "Any signs of
armed resistance?"

"No, sir," replied Broadmayne; for now that the _Alerte_ had swung
through eight points, her quickfirer could be seen from the bridge
of the _Canvey_. "The poor bounders have got the wind up badly," he
added.

"They'll get it worse, if they don't chuck up the sponge," rejoined
Raxworthy. "By Jove! If they don't strike that Jolly Roger there'll
be trouble. For'ard starboard gun, there! One round at the enemy's
bows!"

The shell, a seven-pounder, shrieked as it sped on its errand of
destruction. A flash, a cloud of black smoke and a shower of pieces
of metal announced that the missile had accomplished its work.
Practically the whole of the for'ard superstructure of the pirate
submarine had vanished.

"Black flag's struck, sir!" announced the gunnery-lieutenant.

"They're doing the 'arms up' stunt," supplemented another of the
group of officers on the _Canvey's_ bridge.

The _Alerte_ was losing way rapidly. A solitary figure appeared on the
hitherto deserted bridge.

"We--surrender," came the semaphored message.

"Wise men," commented Raxworthy, as he faced aft to order away the
boats containing the prize-crew.

"She's submerging, sir!" exclaimed Broadmayne.

The lieutenant-commander turned abruptly. He was about to order
every gun able to bear upon the pirate submarine to open fire, when
he observed that men were leaping overboard in a state of
uncontrollable panic. That altered matters. Had the crew of the
_Alerte_ been at diving stations, he would not have hesitated to
hasten her departure by means of half a dozen high-explosive shells.
The fact that the pirates were swimming for dear life in a
shark-infested sea, compelled him to stay his hand.

"Away lifeboat's crews!"

To the shrill trill of the bo'sun's mate's whistle the bluejackets
rushed to man the boats. The excitement of the chase had vanished;
in its place was the whole-hearted eagerness to save life.

The _Alerte_ disappeared with very little noise or commotion. Although
the water was considerably disturbed, there was hardly any suction.
The swimmers, although impeded by their cumbersome cork lifebelts,
had little difficulty in getting clear of her as she submerged.

"What's young Maynebrace doing?" asked the lieutenant-commander as
the loud report of a revolver rang out, followed by three shots in
rapid succession.

Broadmayne, also attracted by the reports, saw the midshipman in
charge of the second cutter standing up in the stern-sheets and
firing apparently at some of the swimmers. Apparently several of the
pirates thought that they were about to be shot as they swam, for
they turned and began to strike out away from the rescuing boats.

There was a wild, almost unearthly shriek. One of the wretched men
threw up his arms and disappeared. A patch of blood appeared on the
surface over the spot where he had vanished. Again Midshipman
Maynebrace fired, his objective being the head of an enormous shark,
just as the monster turned on its back to seize another victim.

Right amidst the straggling crowd of swimmers dashed the two boats,
their crews engaged between dealing spanking blows with the blades
of their oars upon the water, and hauling the terrified pirates over
the gunwales.

Cain had revenged himself upon his mutinous crew. Only fifteen
escaped the jaws of the ferocious tigers of the deep, and these were
almost mad with the horror of the scene.

Among those who fell victims to the sharks was Marchant the gunner.
Pengelly, wearing only a shirt and trousers, was one of the
survivors. His hair had turned white during his desperate swim.

The late second in command of the _Alerte_ hardly hoped to pass
himself off as one of the ratings of the pirate submarine. He
realised that he was far from being popular with the crew. Sooner or
later they would "give him away." But the attempt was worth trying.

As he came over the side of the _Canvey_ he was interrogated by a
stern-faced lieutenant, who demanded his name and rating.

"Smith, Tom--deck-hand," he replied.

The _Canvey's_ officer noted the particulars without comment. Pengelly
went for'ard under arrest, ignorant of the fact that Sub-Lieutenant
Gerald Broadmayne was watching him from the bridge.

"There's no sign of Cain, sir," remarked the Sub to the owner. "That
fellow just gone for'ard is Pengelly. Marchant the gunner and
Barnard the bo'sun don't appear to be present."

"Hang it all!" ejaculated Raxworthy, "you don't suggest that three
of the pirate officers, including the ringleader, are still on board
the submarine? Pass the word to Mr. Hamley to send Pengelly to the
quarter-deck under an armed guard."

The lieutenant on the gangway received the message. Consulting the
list he had made, he found that no one answering to that name had
been received on board. He sent a message to that effect to the
captain.

After considerable delay, Pengelly was found and brought aft. The
moment he saw Broadmayne standing behind the lieutenant-commander,
he knew that the game was up as far as concealing his identity was
concerned.

"Where's Cain?" demanded Raxworthy, without any preliminaries.

Pengelly explained what had occurred, spinning an elaborate yarn
that he had done his utmost to persuade Captain Cain to surrender,
and trying to excuse himself for having ever set foot on board the
_Alerte_.

The lieutenant-commander brought him up with a round turn.

"Enough of that!" he said sternly. "Where is the gunner of the
_Alerte_?"

Pengelly shook his head. That was a question that he could not
answer. He was still unaware of the fate of Mr. Marchant.

"And the bo'sun--Barnard, I believe, is his name?" continued
Raxworthy.

Again Pengelly let his tongue run riot, dwelling on Barnard's action
in siding with Cain and going below with him.

"For what reason?" asked the lieutenant-commander.

"Cain will probably try to bring the _Alerte_ to the surface when he
thinks the coast is clear," replied Pengelly readily enough.

"Two men cannot do that," interrupted Raxworthy.

"There may be more," rejoined the pirate. "I remember two hands at
least going below. I did not see them come on deck again. Please
remember, sir, I've done my best to answer your questions. I
deeply regret----"

"Remove the prisoner," said Raxworthy sternly.

He waited until Pengelly had been taken for'ard, then he turned to
Broadmayne.

"I suppose you are quite certain that the _Alerte_ hasn't electrical
propelling machinery?" he asked.

"There was none when I was on board, sir," replied the Sub.

"I don't suppose four men will be able to disconnect the clutches
and turn the propellers sufficiently to make the submarine move,"
remarked Raxworthy, half-seriously, half-jokingly. "She's there
right enough. Well, I've given Cain a fair chance; he wouldn't
accept it. What happens now is his funeral, not mine."

Raxworthy returned to the bridge. It was now about an hour before
sunset. The sheltered bay was as smooth as a millpond. There was
nothing to indicate that the elusive pirate submarine lay ten
fathoms deep except a small mark-buoy that had been placed over the
spot where the _Alerte_ had disappeared.

His orders were plain enough--to capture or destroy. He had done his
best to carry out the first part of his instructions. Cain had
foiled him in that direction by submerging. Short of powerful
salvage craft and plant there was no means of bringing the submarine
to the surface and then effecting her capture. The _Canvey_ could
wireless to Gibraltar dockyard for the necessary gear, but
days--weeks perhaps--would elapse before the cumbersome salvage
lighters could be towed to Bahia Arenas. There was no help for it
but to act upon the second alternative--to destroy.

"There's one consolation," soliloquised the lieutenant-commander,
"the poor brutes won't know much about it. It's a quick end."

Slowly the _Canvey_ turned until her bows pointed nearly end-on to the
mark-buoy. On the starboard side of the poop was a squat-looking
object somewhat resembling the old-time siege mortar, its wide
muzzle grinning upwards at an elevation of forty-five degrees. The
weapon--a depth-charge projector--was loaded with a missile set to
explode at sixty feet beneath the surface.

"All ready, Mr. Garnett?" sang out the lieutenant-commander to the
gunner who was in charge of the apparatus.

"Ay, ay, sir!"

The engine-room telegraph bell clanged. Almost immediately the
_Canvey_ increased speed. The mark-buoy bore abeam, a cable's length
to starboard.

_Crash_! went the propelling charge.

Like a gigantic salmon-tin, the missile described its parabolic
flight--so slowly that observers on the bridge could see the huge
canister turning over and over in mid-air.

It struck the water with a resounding thud, flinging up a shower of
spray. Already the _Canvey_ under fifteen degrees of starboard helm
was rapidly increasing her distance from the mark-buoy. Slowly the
intervening seconds passed; so slowly that Broadmayne began to think
the fuse of the depth-charge had proved defective.

Then came a truly stupendous roar. A slender column of water was
hurled quite two hundred feet in the air. The hull of the _Canvey_
shook under the terrific blast of displaced air. The tranquil waters
of the bay were transformed into a mass of agitated waves.

The column of upheaved water fell with a loud hissing noise. For
nearly half a minute the turmoil continued. Then, in the midst of
the maelstrom, appeared a patch of calm, iridescent oil spreading
steadily in all directions, while multitudes of fish, killed or
stunned by the detonation, floated belly-upwards upon the surface.

"Away, diving-party," ordered Captain Raxworthy.

"With your permission, sir, I would like to accompany the divers,
sir," said Broadmayne.

"Are you qualified?" asked the lieutenant-commander.

"Yes, sir," replied the Sub. "I did a diving-course at Whaley when I
paid off from the _Arcturus_, and I've been down to fourteen
fathoms."

"Very good," was the rejoinder.

Broadmayne saluted and went off to make the necessary preparations.

The _Canvey_ was equipped with two types of diving dresses, both
designed and made by the firm of Siebe, Gorman & Co. One was of the
common variety, in which the air is pumped through a pipe from a
pump above the surface of the sea. The other was of the
self-contained type; the air supply, judiciously combined with
oxygen, is contained in cylinders strapped to the back of the diver.
Thus he is independent of air-tubes, life-lines and other
contrivances likely to impede his movements.

The Sub chose the latter type of dress. The depth in which the
_Alerte_ had sunk was between fifty and sixty feet at low water, the
maximum distance below the surface at which the self-contained
diving-suit can be used without undue risk.

One of the seaman-divers was already being garbed in a similar suit
by his attendants; the other man was preparing to don a dress with
lifeline and air-tube, the helmet being provided with a telephone by
means of which he could engage in conversation with the above-water
party in the boat.

The descent was to be made as speedily as possible before more
sharks appeared upon the scene of the wreck to feast on the bodies
of their less fortunate kind who had been killed by the explosion.
Nevertheless, Broadmayne and his companions were warned to keep a
sharp look-out while under the surface. As a rule, a shark will
hesitate to attack a diver, but there have been instances in which a
terrible submarine struggle has taken place between a diver and the
tigers of the deep.

The diving-boats pushed off and anchored fore and aft as close as
desirable to the wreck. The diver with the air-tube type of dress
was the first to descend, sliding at a steady pace down the
shot-rope.

A tug on the life-line gave the attendants warning that the man had
reached the bottom. "Ready, sir?" asked a petty officer.

"Right," replied Broadmayne.

The glass plate in the front of his helmet was screwed home. He was
now cut off from the outside world as far as the air supply was
concerned, and the sensation was not a pleasant one.

Unlike the first man to descend, whose helmet had been closed only
when he was waist-deep in water, the Sub had to be finally equipped
while in the boat. Assisted by the attendants--for his movements
were hampered by the weight of his helmet, chemical-containers,
chest and back weights, and leaden-soled boots, the whole amounting
to 190 lb.--Broadmayne scrambled awkwardly and ponderously over the
gunwale, grasped the shot-line used by his predecessor and began the
descent.

In spite of the weight of the dress in air, it now had so little
weight in water that the Sub had no difficulty in retarding the
downward movement. Even the inconvenience caused by the unaccustomed
air supply passed away after a few seconds.

Presently his leaden-soled feet touched the bed of the Bahia Arenas
so lightly that he could hardly credit that he was standing on a
floor of hard sand. So transparent was the water that he had no
difficulty in seeing objects five or six yards off, all grotesquely
distorted and exaggerated.

Grasping the second of the three distance lines, the Sub commenced
his submarine walk, following the cord that the first diver had paid
out. Evidently the man had not erred in his sense of direction, for
the line lay motionless on the sandy floor. All around were pieces
of jagged steel-plating, copper pipes and other débris from the
ill-fated _Alerte_.

Presently an enormous dark grey mass loomed up in front. It was the
hull of the pirate submarine. The seaman-diver, with bubbles rising
from his helmet, was standing by. His job lay outside the hull;
Broadmayne's and that of the third diver, inside.

In less than two minutes the third member of the party appeared. The
first man, turning to reassure himself that his air-tube and
life-line were clear of the jagged plates, worked round towards the
stern. It was here that the full force of the powerful depth-charge
had expended itself. Thirty feet or more of the after-portion of the
submarine had been completely blown apart, together with most of the
propelling machinery. There was not the slightest doubt about the
destruction of the after-part of the submarine. It remained to be
seen whether the water-tight bulkhead separating the motor-room from
the 'midship and fore compartment had withstood the strain.

Signing to his similarly-equipped companion to follow him,
Broadmayne clambered up the sloping side of the considerably-listing
vessel. The ease with which he performed this feat rather surprised
him.

Once again the Sub trod the deck--or, rather, what remained of the
deck of the _Alerte_. The bridge had disappeared and the whole of the
bulwarks and deck aft, leaving bare a full fifty feet of the
massively-built submarine hull to where it terminated abruptly in a
jagged edge of twisted steel. Most of the raised fo'c'sle had been
blown away by shell-fire before the _Alerte_ submerged, but between
the rise of the fo'c'sle and the conning-tower, which was
practically intact, the false deck was still in position.

Making his way to the forehatch--it was originally the
torpedo-hatch--Broadmayne tried to open it. Being secured from
below, the metal cover resisted his efforts. Foiled in that
direction, the Sub retraced his steps to the conning-tower hatchway.
As he did so, a dark object above the rail attracted his attention.
It was Cain's ensign--the skull and cross-bones--still lashed to a
boathook. When the _Alerte_ submerged, the natural tendency of the ash
stave was to float, but the metal hook engaging in one of the
shrouds of the housed foremast had held it down. Even the explosion
of the depth-charge had failed to dislodge it.

Drawing his knife, Broadmayne cut the emblem of piracy adrift and
secured it to his belt. Then he resumed his investigations.

The conning-tower was also secured and clipped from the inside. Was
it possible, he wondered, that Cain and his companions were still
alive in the apparently intact and air-tight for'ard compartment of
the hull? Going aft, the Sub lowered himself cautiously over the
riven edge of the hull-plating, lest a sharp projection should
penetrate his inflated dress. Then, signing to his fellow-diver to
remain, he switched on his submarine electric lamp and crept forward
inside the hull.

The first twenty feet or so was greatly encumbered with wreckage,
but on passing through the transverse bulkhead, the watertight door
of which had been blown inwards, Broadmayne found that there was
little damage done to the 'midships section.

As a matter of precaution and to save negotiating the debris-strewn
motor-room again, the Sub unclipped and threw open the conning-tower
hatch. Then proceeding for'ard he found that the door between the
'midships section and the bow compartment was wide open. It swung
freely on its hinges, although the straining the hull had received
made it impossible for the usually close-fitting door to close.

In the bow compartment, Broadmayne searched diligently for the
bodies of Cain and his companions, but without success. Then he came
to the door of the air-lock, by which a man in a diving suit could
leave the submarine when the vessel was lying on the bottom. The
door was shut. Usually six diving suits and twenty-four life-saving
helmets were ranged along the bulkhead. The latter were there,
jammed against the curved roof under the deck, but four of the
self-contained diving-dresses were absent.

Prising back the locking-gear of the door of the air-lock the Sub
entered the compartment. It was, as he expected, empty, but the
hinged flap on the outside hull-plating was open.

Captain Cain had made a bid for life and freedom. Whether he had
succeeded or had been caught by the explosion before he had got well
clear of the ship remains an unsolved problem.

There was no need for further investigation. Broadmayne returned to
his companions by means of the conning-tower hatchway. Together they
dropped over the side and found the other diver waiting by the
distance cords.

In single file, the man with the air-tube leading as the attendants
in the boat slowly heaved in his air-tube and lifeline, the three
made their way to the shot-rope.

Then came the tedious ascent. To go up quickly and without a pause
was not to be thought of. The great risk of being killed by
excessive blood-pressure on the brain had to be guarded against.
Slowly Broadmayne was hoisted, kept hanging for several minutes and
then hoisted a few feet more, until at length he felt himself being
grasped under the arms and assisted into the boat. Then his helmet
glass removed, he sat and gasped, gratefully inhaling copious
draughts of fresh air.

As soon as the other divers were in the boat the anchors were
weighed and a course shaped for the _Canvey_, which was steaming
slowly in wide circles round the scene of the wreck.

"Satisfactory job?" inquired Raxworthy laconically.

"After-part blown clean away, sir," replied Broadmayne. "All the
other compartments are full of water."

"Any signs of bodies?"

"No, sir."

"Did you see any?" inquired the lieutenant-commander, turning to the
seamen-divers.

"No, sir," answered the man who used the air-tube pattern dress. "I
went right round the wreck on the outside--starboard side first and
then port to the full extent of my life-line. No doubt, sir, the men
in her were blown to bits. There was a plate torn right out close to
her bows, I noticed. That shows how strong the force of the
explosion was."

Captain Raxworthy nodded.

"Then there's no possible doubt about it," he remarked to the
officers standing by. "Well, our work's done. The _Alerte's_
destroyed." He paused and glanced over the side across the tranquil
waters of the bay. "I'm rather sorry for that chap Cain," he
continued. "He evidently was a bit of a sport. I'd like to have met
him." Before sunset, H.M.S. _Canvey_ was steaming to the nor'ard,
homeward bound.

  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Pengelly was found guilty and sentenced to a long term of penal
servitude. The surviving members of the _Alerte's_ ship's company
received lighter sentences, but of sufficient severity to deter
others who might wish to emulate the misdeeds of the captain and
crew of the pirate submarine.

Gerald Broadmayne, lately promoted to lieutenant in consideration of
his services in the operations against the _Alerte_, had to give
evidence at the trial. But there were two points upon which he was
silent: Cain's real name and former rank in the Royal Navy was one;
the other was the incident of the air-lock.

Often Broadmayne thought of that air-lock, especially when he gazed
at the skull and cross-bones bedecked relic of the _Alerte_. It was
to him a fascinating and yet unsolved mystery. Did Cain succeed in
his desperate effort to escape? Or did the bed of the land-locked
Bahia Arenas hold the secret of the fate of the captain of the
pirate submarine until the sea gives up its dead?



  [Transcriber's Notes:

    This book contains a number of misprints.
    The following misprints have been corrected:

    [Captain Cain were very much mistaken] ->
        [Captain Cain was very much mistaken]

    [the threatened gale] -> [the threatening gale]

    [the threatened storm] -> [the threatening storm]

    [that o a red rag] -> [that of a red rag]

    [as he had never before experience,] ->
        [as he had never before experienced,]

    [and two submeged torpedo tubes] ->
        [and two submerged torpedo tubes]

    [as he grapsed] -> [as he grasped]

    [returning ignominously to] -> [returning ignominiously to]

    [half a dozen ratlins] -> [half a dozen ratlines]

    [Counfound Cain!] -> [Confound Cain!]

    [the dumbfoundered men] -> [the dumbfounded men]

    "boatswain" is abbreviated to [bo's'un] (3 times) and [bo'sun]
    (41 times) in this book. Because both spellings are correct they
    have been left unchanged.

    [to bet a bottle of '14 Champagne to a Corona Corona]: the double
    word "Corona" is not a typographical error, but an expensive kind
    of cigar.

    A few cases of punctuation errors were corrected, but are not
    mentioned here.





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