The Mystery Ship: A Story of the 'Q' Ships During the Great War
Page 13
CHAPTER XIII
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE
WITH Captain Cumberleigh's valedictory words ringing in his ears,Pyecroft began his preparations to avoid capture. While his comradeswere hurriedly lowering the _Pipsqueak's_ sail, the "second loot,"hidden from the pirate craft by the flapping canvas, slipped over theside as noiselessly and silently as an eel.
The shock of the icy-cold water almost took his breath away.
"By gosh!" he muttered. "It is a bit of a stinger. But cheer up, oldson, you may get it pretty hot in a very short time."
With that he dived under the lighter's hull. Literally groping hisway down the weed and barnacle-covered bottom, he scraped under thekeel and up again on the other side until darkness gave place to aglint of pale green water that in turn gave place to the salt-ladenair. He had now placed the hull of No. 5 between him and the U-boat.So far so good, but the late member of the R.A.F. Salvage Syndicatehad to consider another pressing problem.
Even supposing, as he fondly hoped, that the Huns had not noticedhim, it was logical to assume that they would not sheer off beforesending the lighter to Davy Jones's locker. How? By ramming? Hardly.A U-boat would not hesitate to crash into a ship's boat deeply ladenwith the survivors of a torpedoed merchantman, but she would thinktwice before trying conclusions with the lighter's massiverubbing-strake. By placing bombs on board? That meant making use of aboat and consequently delay. Gunfire? Yes; that looked like theanswer to the question.
Now for the subsidiary problem. Assuming that the Huns would turn aquick-firer upon the lighter, where would they aim? At theengine-room? Hardly, as the stern was already awash. Amidships, intothe heavily-laden hold, the work of destruction would be most easilyaccomplished.
"So here's for her bows," decided Pyecroft, having reviewed thesituation. "If my theories are all wrong, then it's a case of 'goingwest.'" He swam with slow, easy strokes towards the bows. There wasno immediate hurry, since the boat with his companions had not yetreached the pirate submarine. He knew that he had to conserve hisstrength and his energies for the ordeal that promised to beforthcoming.
To his great delight, he found a rope trailing overboard. A tugreassured him that it was made fast to the towing bollards. Byhanging on to it Pyecroft could support himself with ease, while thebluff, overhanging bows would effectually screen him should any ofthe Huns board the abandoned craft.
For a long-drawn ten minutes--it seemed like ten hours--Pyecroftwaited. Already the numbing cold was taking effect. His upstretchedarm seemed to have lost all sensation of feeling. It was merely thegrip of the tightly closed fingers, contracted by the cold, thatsupported him.
Then with appalling suddenness came the crash of the exploding shell.Jerked almost clear of the water, Pyecroft had a vision of theforepart of the massive hull rearing high in the air. Flying debrishurtled over him, pungent smoke filled the air. Then, with a rush ofeddying water, the X-lighter slithered beneath the waves.
Under cover of the smoke Pyecroft struck out. Fragments hurled highin the air were now falling all around him, while buoyant objects,taken down by the vortex, were rising to the surface with terrificforce. A plank, the jagged edge of which would have almost cut theswimmer in two, shot upwards from beneath the waves. Missing him byinches, it described a parabola, rising to a height of twenty feet ormore before it fell back with a resounding smack.
With his senses deadened by the stupendous roar, the pungent smokeand the coldness of the water, Pyecroft kept himself afloatautomatically until he came in contact with a huge wicker basket thatwas floating upside down with about a third of its bulk exposed.
As he grasped it, the basket turned completely over, the rim strikingthe swimmer a smart rap on the face. The sting of the blow had theeffect of partly restoring his mental faculties. Gaining a firmergrip of the basket, he took stock of his surroundings.
The surface of the water was coated with a deposit of oil, for partof the cargo of X 5 had consisted of turps, linseed, and lubricatingoil in casks. One effect of the explosion of the shell had been toliberate the contents of the casks; another, the oil acted as anantidote to the coldness of the water.
Before the haze of smoke had completely disappeared Pyecroft drew thebasket over his head. Within there was enough space to keep his headclear of the water, and at the same time there remained considerablebuoyancy on the part of the stout wicker-work.
Presently the outlines of the U-boat that had been responsible forPyecroft's predicament became visible. She was slowly forging ahead.Her deck was deserted. She was preparing to submerge.
"She's gone," he soliloquised. "That's a blessing. I wouldn't swopplaces with Cumberleigh for a tenner."
He dodged outside his place of concealment and glanced around. Ahundred yards away was the water-logged _Pip-squeak_. Even with hergarboard smashed the staunchly built boat kept afloat.
"Wonder if I can do it?" thought the swimmer.
Fumbling with benumbed fingers to draw a knife from his pocket, heproceeded to cut the laces of his leggings.
"There's thirty-one and six gone," he muttered ruefully. "An' theyaren't paid for yet."
His boots were likewise ruthlessly sacrificed. Then, quitting hishold of the basket, he struck out towards the derelict boat. A fewstrokes convinced him that the overhand method of swimming has itsdisadvantages when hampered with sodden clothing. The breast stroke,he found, required comparatively little effort, yet by the time hecovered that hundred yards he felt that he had reached the limit ofhis prowess in the swimming line.
Grasping the gunwale, Pyecroft attempted to clamber into the boat,with the result that the water-logged boat dipped completely underhis weight.
At the second attempt he slithered over the transom and, stillsubmerged, lightly grasped one of the thwarts. Here was a precariousshelter. Provided he made no attempt to draw himself clear of thewater, there was just sufficient buoyancy to keep him afloat.
His next task--there was little time before he would be overcome bythe cold--was to unship the mast and lash it to the thwarts. Thricethe boat dipped before the effort met with success. The stout spar,secured to the thwarts by the main-sheets and halliards, addedconsiderably to the liveliness of the boat.
An oar, amongst other flotsam, drifted alongside. This Pyecroftsecured, and by its aid added another oar, although of differentlength, to his life-saving appliances. A circular life-buoy and acouple of empty petrol tins were also taken possession of; these helashed under thwarts, with the result that the boat's gunwales showedfour inches above the surface amidships.
Groping on the bottom boards, the young officer discovered a pair ofgun-metal rowlocks that had apparently escaped the eye of thedestructive Hun. Thus equipped, he began to row for the distantshore.
It was hard work. At the best the water-logged craft made a bare milean hour, but the effect of the heavy toil was to bring warmth to theman's chilled body and limbs. Setting his jaw tightly, he held on,glancing from time to time over his shoulder in the direction of thecliffs, now growing dim in the dusk of approaching night.
"How much further?" he asked himself at the end of two hours. "Hangedif they seem any nearer. Wind and tide are with me, too."
Compared with flying through the air at a hundred and fifty miles anhour, his present rate of progression was indeed painfully slow, yetwith the dogged determination of an Englishman, "never to say dietill you're dead," he tugged at the heavy oars until his blisteredhands grew raw and his muscles ached as if his back would break.
With night the wind dropped and the sea assumed a placid, oilyaspect. The land was now invisible, for not a light could be seenfrom seaward. Fortunate it was that the young airman had beencompelled to undergo a course of astronomy. He hated it at the time;now he was glad, for by keeping the North Star broad on his starboardbeam, he knew that he was heading towards the shores of Scotland.
His task was stupendous. The drag of the boat, which contained morethan a ton of the North Sea, was terrific. He was wearing badly.
Cold, hunger and fatigue were telling. Almost mechanically he swottedat the heavy oars.
He had lost all count of time, when he heard a faint rumble. It wasthe surf lashing the beach. Encouraged, yet realising that otherdangers lurked on that surf-beaten shore, he rallied his remainingenergies, counting each stroke as he bent to the oars.
At the one thousand and eightieth stroke he desisted. Around him thewater was phosphorescent and white with the backlash of the waves.His task was accomplished. Human endurance had attained its limit. Hewas powerless to control his water-logged craft in the breakers. Allhe could do was to sit tight and trust in Providence.
For another five minutes the sorely-tried _Pip-squeak_ was tossed andbuffeted in the broken water, until a tremendous jar announced thatin the trough of the waves she had touched hard shingle.
Then, like an avalanche, a cascade of foam swept completely over theboat. Frantically Pyecroft strove to grip the gunwale. Torn away bythe rush of water, he was conscious of being pounded on the shingle.Then came the dreaded undertow.
Vainly he attempted to grasp the rolling shingle. He felt himselfbeing swept backwards to be again overwhelmed by the next roller,when his retrograde motion was arrested by a heavy object. It was the_Pip-squeak_. Even in the last stages of her existence Jefferson'sboat seemed destined to be of service.
With a final effort as the frothy water slithered past Pyecroftgained his feet. The hiss of the approaching breaker gave strength tohis limbs. Stumbling, terror-stricken, and well-nigh exhausted, hecontrived to win the race by inches until, realising that the dreadedenemy had fallen short, he fell on his face on the wet shingle.
For some moments he lay thus until, haunted by the horrible suspicionthat the rising tide would overwhelm him, he staggered a few pacesuntil he was above high-water mark, and then collapsed inertly uponthe seaweed-strewn shore.
How long he lay unconscious he had no idea; but when he came tohimself the moon was shining dimly through a watery haze. The tidehad fallen, and with it the horrible ground-swell had disappeared.
He was bitterly cold: his limbs were like lead. An effort to rise wasa dismal failure. He tried to shout, but no sound came from hisparched lips. While he had lain unconscious there must have been ashort spell of wind, for he found that he was covered with driedwrack and seaweed.
"It must be close on daybreak," he thought. "I'll have to stick it alittle longer."
He made an attempt to look at his wristlet watch. The dial was nolonger luminous, while an ominous silence had taken the place of anerstwhile healthy tick. A prolonged submergence had ruined thedelicate mechanism for all time.
As he lay, too benumbed to move, he became aware that a boat hadgrounded on the beach within a few yards of his involuntaryresting-place. The little craft must have come in very silently, foruntil the men's boots grated on the shingle he was unaware of theirpresence.
Again he tried to shout, but without result. Then, even as he triedto raise himself, he noticed that with one exception the men woreunfamiliar uniforms. They were talking softly, with an unmistakableguttural Teutonic accent.
"Huns," thought Pyecroft. "What's their little game? I've done themso far, and I'm hanged if I want them to put a half-nelson on me now.I'll lie doggo."
Which, considering his weak physical state, was an easy matter to do.
The Huns were evidently in a hurry, for after a few words with agreatcoated individual, they pushed off and rowed seaward, while theman they had left ashore lifted a portmanteau from the shingle andmade his way towards the cliff with the air of one who is confidentof his surroundings.
He passed so close to the prone figure lying partly covered byseaweed that for a brief instant Pyecroft expected the stranger tostumble against him.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the astonished Pyecroft. "Where have Iseen that fellow? By Jove--it's Fennelburt. Up to some dirty work: Iwonder what?"