Читать книгу The Pirate Submarine - Percy F. Westerman - Страница 8

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.