He hurriedly gulped the last mouthful as she stopped and said:
“Captain Swenson, I’d like to have you meet Leftenant Knowles, captain of the L-20. Tom, this is Captain Swenson.”
Tom hastily removed the cup from his lips and perfunctorily held out his hand in greeting as his eyes turned reluctantly from Mary’s lovely face to the newcomer. Then he started, involuntarily dropping the coffee cup.
Herr Lieutenant Hans Erhardt!
The heavy cup clattered on the floor, rolled undamaged away as Tom stared fixedly. He thought he detected a sudden flicker of fear in the eyes facing him; if so it was instantly repressed as fie felt his outstretched hand clasped, gripped briefly, and heard, in slightly foreign accents, a voice ask:
“What did you say was the name?”
Mary stooped, picked up the cup.
“How careless of you, Tom. One of Uncle Lewis’ best armour-piercing cups. You might have made a hole in the deck.” She turned. “Leftenant Knowles, Captain Swenson. Excuse me, I’ll be back soon.” She hurried away, clutching the cup.
Tom’s head whirled exultantly. Erhardt in his grasp at last — disguised, ashore on enemy territory, by all the laws of war an instant subject for the noose, the firing squad!
The two men eyed each other steadily.
Erhardt broke the silence.
“Lieutenant Knowles? So — Lieutenant Knowles, the brave captain of the L-20, iss Lieutenant Knowlton. And I read, when in Batavia I finally arrived, that you were dead, lost with your crew in the C-3. I am happy to see it iss not so.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I am, I regret, only standing still, recognized by a man who should be dead. But what use to run? I could not escape if I tried. And with these men — ” He shrugged his shoulders, looking at the crew of refugees. “I torpedoed their ship two days ago. They would tear me in pieces if they knew.”
“They!” Tom looked at them contemptuously. “They were your enemies in wartime. But how about what you did to me?” he shot out fiercely. “Our countries were at peace then; I was your friend, your guest! That God-damned trick you played me cost me my ship, the lives of all my crew!” Tom’s eyes burned with the memory, his fingers closed convulsively. “Lieutenant Knowlton had to die there too! He couldn’t go back the way you left him and face the court that thought him dead!” He seized Erhardt’s lapels, dragged him closer, hissed vehemently into his face:
“Lieutenant Knowlton’s dead all right, but, for three years, Tom Knowles has lived just to get his hands round your neck and squeeze the miserable life out of your body!” Tom’s powerful hands quivered in front of Erhardt’s face, he seemed to have difficulty in refraining from gripping his enemy’s throat.
“So you’re Captain Swenson, now?” he continued, calming himself at last. “And when the Huns sank your boat under your feet, you were the only person left! The truth there all right! I can imagine the U-38 submerging and leaving you in your captured lifeboat close inshore somewhere. And that spares me the trouble. You know what happens to spies, what the Germans did to Nurse Cavell?”
“Well, my friend, why talk about it? I see Admiral Bayly over there; no doubt he will finish the business quickly enough.”
Tom laughed harshly.
“Not so fast. A firing squad works too swiftly. It would never be proper for you; that’s too easy a way out. I have a much better way to make you pay — you and the U-38!” He looked at Erhardt sharply. “Come, Captain — Swenson, what brings the skipper of the U-38 ashore as a neutral in Queenstown? Spying is no business for a man who can fight!”
“Why should I answer?” blustered Erhardt. “It will hurt the Fatherland, it will not help me.”
“Nice of you to think of the Fatherland first. I’m sure the Kaiser will appreciate that!” exclaimed Lieutenant Knowles bitterly. “Well, we’ve been thinking of the Fatherland too, deeply concerned over her conduct. And I’ll tell you why you’re here — the High Command wants to know what’s happening to their U-boats and they picked Captain Erhardt to find out!”
Erhardt started; Tom knew his shot had struck home. “And that’s why I can’t dig my fingers into you the way I’ve been itching to do since that night in Manila!” Tom’s contorted face leaned close to the German’s. “You remember the C-3? Do you know what men feel, trapped in a submarine, whirling downward, waiting, perhaps to be crushed, perhaps to die of slow suffocation? You don’t, do you? Well, you will!”
Tom took a fresh breath, looked hurriedly round. No one was near.
“That’s what’s happening to your U-boats. You can go back and tell the Kaiser so. And that’s what’s going to happen to you and the U-38!”
Erhardt looked at him in surprise.
“To me? You joke. By tomorrow sunrise, if Admiral Bayly can get his court-martial together tonight, I shall, I think, be interested only in a small piece of Irish real estate.”
Lieutenant Knowles shook his head.
“Not this time. But have you found out what you came for?”
Erhardt shrugged his shoulders.
“Unfortunately not yet. One must be careful, a shipwrecked neutral can not ask too many questions. The natives — they know nothing. In the canteen, the girls give out no hints. The sailors — I have not had time to talk to them yet. I must as a refugee pick up some sympathetic bluejackets, get them drunk, then perhaps I find out. It takes patience, a little waiting yet. When Miss Martin says she will have me meet the captain of the L-20, I am happy. He is a brave man, he torpedoed our battle cruisers in our own waters; he will of course know what the Allies are doing to our unfortunate U-boats. And I am Captain Swenson, a victim of the U-boats myself. Only yesterday they have sunk my ship. Enough drinks, I curse the hated U-boats, he will have sympathy for the brutal sinking of my ship, more drinks, and the captain of the L-20 will unbosom himself, at least let drop some hints how they are protecting innocent neutrals from the U-boats. I congratulate myself on my luck. I come, and I meet — better the devil himself than Lieutenant Knowlton here!”
A dazzling idea swept Tom’s mind. Erhardt was evidently telling the truth. If he could get Erhardt to take back to Germany some strangely weird tale of what was happening to the U-boats, something that would intensify the horror and the mystery of their disappearance without giving away what was actually happening, the German submarine crews would be still further shaken, their morale would probably soon crack altogether, and, as for losing Erhardt himself, now that he had him, the result to be obtained was worth risking his revenge for. Erhardt was the best the enemy had; he would stick by the U-38, and there'd be a chance of getting him yet; of getting him where he would suffer the torture of the deep. If Tom didn’t get him with the L-20, one of the other decoy ships was bound to before long. Other U-boats, afraid of unseen perils, might skulk off in safety, never make another real attack. He could be sure of Erhardt. As long as the war went on and Erhardt commanded the U-38, he would continue to drive home his torpedoes, and the first submarine decoy he ran into would be his finish.
Tom made up his mind swiftly.
“So you’d rather meet the devil than me, eh? You’ll think so later, but right now you’re in luck. Without a single drink, the brave captain of the L-20 will tell you just what you came ashore for, what you risked death to find out! Come on, let’s get out of here before Miss Martin gets back or anything happens to spoil the party.” Tom started for the door, but Erhardt stood stock-still, looking at him incredulously.
“Come on, I say,” breathed Tom savagely. “Do you want to stay here and be shot?” Erhardt followed. Tom dodged in and out among the knots of haranguing sailors, made his escape through the door. The silent moon shone down, illuminating the deserted quay, lighting dimly the tall masts of the ships crowding the harbour, glimmering gently across the water lapping the rocky hills.
“Where’s your boat?” asked Tom shortly, when they were both clear of the Custom House, and standing out in the open on the stone coping
of the quay, certain that no one was near.
“Beached off Auld Head of Kinsale, where I left it when I drifted in yesterday. It’s still there, I suppose.”
“Don’t be a fool. The U-38, I mean. Where’s she?”
A light dawned on Erhardt’s face; his lips curled slightly in the moonlight.
“Ach, you think I am simple, eh? That is the reason for all the conversation, so? You have me, you think I will give away my ship, you will go out and bomb her, then you will shoot me also. Save your breath. Let us go back to your admiral.”
“Rot. Don’t talk as if you thought you could play me for the idiot you did once in Manila. You know what I mean about your ship. Is she where you can rejoin off the Irish coast, or must you work your way back to Germany through Scandinavia, you being Captain Swenson now?”
“Unter-Lieutenant Sarwetel has his instructions. If I come not to the rendezvous in the lifeboat by midnight tomorrow, with the U-38 he goes immediately back to Germany.”
“Good. Then you can return via that Danish freighter that’s sailing for Stockholm tomorrow morning, and get easily to Germany from there. The other way isn’t safe, the U-38 might be sunk on her way back to her base and you’d never return with the information that Berlin wants so badly about our plans. No, you’ll go home as a neutral, and let Unter-Lieutenant Sarwetel have a chance to show his metal in bringing the U-38 back — if he’s lucky.”
Erhardt looked at him curiously.
“You speak in riddles, Herr Knowlton. Why taunt me now about your secret methods, about my return to Germany? I am resigned. I know well enough that when I return to the Fatherland it will be in a coffin.”
“No, I’m not taunting you. You’re going back this time safe, with the secret plans you came for. But if you’re wise, when you get there, stay, for next time you’ll not go back, in a coffin or any other way. You’ll be anchored in the deep sea.”
“So? And why?”
“Because we have the answer to the U-boat war! We haven’t been idle. While you’ve been playing with poison gas, with long-range guns to bombard Paris, what do you think America has been doing? We’ve mobilized Edison, De Forest, Fessenden, Steinmetz — all the electrical and radio wizards in the country — to find a weapon against the U-boat. And they found it! We’re using it now, that’s why your boats are disappearing.”
“Ach, yes, but why should you tell me this, why should I believe you?”
“I’m telling you because there’s no defence against it, because we’ve got the U-boats now where we want them; we don’t care whether they know it or not. And you’ll believe me, all right, when you remember what’s happened to your shipmates in the last few months. Where are the seven boats that suddenly vanished on the seas? On the bottom, my friend. And why? Because they came in range of our new sonic vibrator.”
“Your sonic vot?” asked Erhardt eagerly.
“Our sonic vibrator! Simple. Edison, Fessenden, the other inventors, have perfected a diaphragm that projects through the water a series of resonant vibrations of such frequency that they act on guncotton, on T.N.T., exactly like a detonator; they explode it. Any U-boat that approaches within a mile of such a ship is destroyed by the detonation of her own warheads!”
In the moonlight, Tom caught a shudder in Erhardt’s frame. He pressed his advantage.
“Good, is it not? Already the few merchant ships fitted with the experimental sets have destroyed seven U-boats. The end is swiftly in sight now. At Schenectady, our General Electric Company is working day and night on equipment to turn the apparatus out on a production basis. And Steinmetz and his colleagues are working to extend its vibration range beyond a mile. Soon every tramp, every freighter, every transport, will be fitted out with the new sonic vibrator, and then the U-boat war will be over. Why? Because, Herr Erhardt, any U-boat which approaches within torpedo range will destroy herself!”
Tom Knowles shot out the last words savagely, then stopped abruptly and watched the unhappy officer before him. He had made a deep impression. He clinched his argument.
“And now, Herr Lieutenant Erhardt, you know. Take back the secret to Berlin; there is no need for secrecy in this. The U-boat problem is solved. Why should we care who knows?”
He took Erhardt by the arm and headed for the float at the landing a quarter of a mile away.
“If you are wise, when you reach Berlin, stay there. But you will not, you will not believe, you will pay. Perhaps before then, we may meet again. The seas are wide, but who knows?” They reached the float. Tom led the way down, commandeered the first boat.
“Come, Captain Swenson, I will see you aboard the Hjalmar there and safely started on your way to Stockholm.”
CHAPTER XXVI
The master of the Galway balanced himself in the port wing of the bridge as his ship rolled sluggishly under him, squinting through the tiny sextant telescope, trying to hold it steady while he sighted. Slowly he turned the vernier screw, bringing the lower limb of the sun’s disk down till its image in the mirror danced just above the sharp line of the far horizon.
“Stand by!”
The quartermaster in the pilot house clutched his comparing watch, glued his eye on the second hand as it ticked slowly round.
Another turn of the vernier screw. Through the sextant, the disk of the sun just touched the horizon.
“Mark!” called out Erickson.
“5 hr. n m. 23 s.” The quartermaster jotted down the time in his notebook, looked inquiringly at his skipper. Erickson was peering through the microscope at the vernier scale on his sextant arm, counting the marks to the point of coincidence.
“Twenty degrees, eighteen minutes, eleven seconds,” said Erickson finally.
“20° 18' 11".” The quartermaster jotted it down in his book just below the time it was taken, drawing a bracket around time and observed altitude to avoid any confusion later when the captain started to work up his sights.
Again the skipper raised his sextant to get another sight to average with his first one. He had to depend on his celestial navigation for his position, and he must be sure of not being thrown out of his reckoning by relying on only one sight, which might turn out to be a freak. Extra care was necessary. His dead reckoning was practically worthless, because, with that pig dragging astern submerged all day long, it was next to impossible to estimate with any accuracy either his true course or the distance made good.
Captain Erickson, taking his eye from the sextant for an instant, glanced aft over his stern. Everything was as usual there; nothing showed through his turbulent wake to betray the hidden submarine, and, in the low rays of the late afternoon sun, he could see Mr. Mate and a few seamen on the poop, dragging an old tarpaulin over the breech of the six-pounder to protect it from the weather. He lifted the sextant to his face, closed his left eye, squinted again through the telescope with his right, while he twirled the vernier screw once more, bringing the sun down to meet the horizon. Again he called out to the quartermaster as he neared the final adjustment:
“Stand by!”
Delicately he turned the adjusting screw. The limb of the sun was just coming in contact with the horizon.
And then a tremendous shock rocked the Galway. The fragile sextant flew from the captain’s fingers and crashed to the deck below. A huge column of smoke and spray rose on the starboard side, enveloped the bridge, mushroomed upward, for a full minute rained tons of water and bits of broken steel over the Galway’s superstructure.
Captain Erickson rushed across the quivering deck to the pilot house, seized the engine telegraph. No need to signal anything, no need to simulate anything. A vast cloud of steam was pouring out the uptakes; the engines were already stopped. The Galway, with a huge hole torn in her starboard side, right in way of the bulkhead between machinery space and after hold, was heeled far over to starboard and rapidly settling by the stern as the water, pouring in, flooded the entire after half of the ship!
Off to starboard led an indistinct trail o
f bubbles. Mechanically Erickson’s eye followed it away from his torn side. A half mile off, near the end of the streak, the sunlight glinted on a rapidly rising periscope, already projecting over four feet from the water. The sea was boiling round it; in another instant, a conning tower burst through, a hatch flew open, and two figures appeared in the chariot bridge. The submarine rose no farther. Erickson seized his glasses, scanned it quickly; nothing but the conning tower showing. There, painted in large white letters, was her number — U-38.
Erickson dropped his glasses and turned to his own ship. No need to pretend panic this time; the injuries were real. Men were staggering up from the engine room — bleeding bodies dragging broken arms, broken legs, painfully up the steep ladders; from the boiler space, the stokers were fleeing to the decks, screaming with pain from burns, terribly scalded by escaping steam.
On the superstructure, a few uninjured seamen were trying to cast loose the boats, badly hampered by the heavy list to starboard, hindered rather than helped by wounded men crawling up the deck, endeavouring to assist in freeing the chocks, swinging out the davits.
In one swift glance, the master took in the situation. There was no time to lose; he must cast loose the L-20 and then look out for the sinking Galway.
He stooped, picked up his telephone, kept low, out of sight from the enemy and pressed the contact.
“Hello, Knowles? We’ve been torpedoed. Terrible explosion right on our after bulkhead. It’s torn open the whole after end; boiler and engine room flooded already; our stern’s partly under now and I’m afraid our timber won’t keep us afloat this time. What’s that? Yes, I’ll cast you loose right away. No, never mind us. Where is she? Off our starboard beam, half a mile away, conning tower out. What’s that again? What boat? Oh, the U-38. What? Yes, the U-38. Let go? Yes, I’ll cast you off right away. Stand by!”
Erickson moved over a little, and, still stooping low, called out fiercely into his after voice tube:
“Mr. Mate!”
No answer. He called again, louder this time. Still no reply. Erickson straightened up, looked aft over the rail. The poop was deserted. The six-pounder leaned crazily over, its platform torn from the deck, twisted railings and broken steel surrounding it. The exploding torpedo had torn the poop apart. And Mr. Mate had been there a moment before. Erickson looked farther aft. A few hundred yards astern, tossing in the dying swirl of his wake, some dark spots showed occasionally, breaking surface, disappearing as the broken water churned and boiled.
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