Читать книгу The Pirate Submarine - Percy F. Westerman - Страница 10

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.