With Beatty off Jutland Part 24

Another half-hour pa.s.sed, but the skipper still remained out of sight.

The wind had now dropped, and the smack, with her main-sheet slacked right off, floundered heavily, dipping her boom-end at every roll.

Already the day was breaking beyond the chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight. Momentarily, the search-lights from The Needles Channel batteries were growing fainter in the grey dawn.

"Isn't it grand!" exclaimed Leslie, inspired by the sight of daybreak at sea.

The sub merely shrugged his shoulders. Untold spells of duty as officer of the watch had made him regard the spectacle with complete indifference.

But the next instant Jack Sefton's la.s.situde fell from him like a discarded mask, for, at less than a hundred yards on the _Fidelity's_ port quarter, appeared the pole-like periscopes of a submarine.

CHAPTER XX--Captured

For a few seconds the optics of the submerged craft remained trained upon the isolated smack. Although the submarine was forging slowly ahead, the periscopes rose no higher out of the water. Evidently those in charge of the vessel were not anxious to rise to the surface until they had satisfied themselves that it was fairly safe to do so.

His attention attracted by his brother's fixed gaze, Leslie sprang to his feet and grasped the weather shrouds.

"What's that, Jack?" he asked.

"What you wanted to see--a submarine."

"One of ours?"

"Hope so," replied the sub laconically; but he had great misgivings on that score. Had it been a British submarine making for Portsmouth, she would almost certainly be running on the surface, in order to make her number before approaching the heavily-defended Needles channel.

Wildly excited, Tim forgot that he was steering and, putting the helm down, allowed the smack to gybe "all standing". The thud of the heavy boom as it swung across and brought up with a violent jerk, had the effect of making Old Garge emerge from the cuddy in a state of nautical profanity.

"What be you up to, you young lubber?" he shouted.

"Submarine, granfer," replied his youthful relative.

"No excuse for gybing," continued the skipper. "Do you mind what you are up to. Where be she?"

He shaded his eyes, expecting to see one of the British "C" or "E" cla.s.s running awash. Instead, he saw only the tips of the periscopes.

"Drat it!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "'Tain't for no good. Anyways, we're too small for her to trouble about we."

Apparently his conjectures were correct, for, with a feather of white foam, and a sullen swirl well in the wake of the periscope, the submarine disappeared wholly from sight.

"'Er's afeard of fouling our nets," declared Old Garge. "Now, if we gives the patrol-boat notice, an' that submarine is done for, there's fifty pun' at least for me. A matter of a couple o' months back my friend Peter----"

But what happened to Peter was a story that Jack Sefton was not permitted to hear, for with a quick, unhesitating motion the submarine reappeared at less than three cables' lengths ahead of the smack.

Shaking herself clear of the water, she displayed the unmistakable outlines of a German _unterseeboot_, although no number was visible on her grey conning-tower.

With remarkable celerity an officer and half a dozen seamen appeared from below, while at the same time a quick-firer was raised from its "housing", for'ard of the conning-tower, and trained upon the luckless _Fidelity_.

Steadily the U boat approached within hailing distance, then, making a half-circle, slowed down on a parallel course to that of the smack.

"Fishing-boat ahoy!" shouted the German officer. "Cut adrift your nets and run alongside, or I'll have to sink you."

Old Garge gave a gasp of astonishment and looked enquiringly at Jack Sefton.

"Them nets cost a sight o' money," he exclaimed ruefully. "Now if I had a gun----"

"Hurry, there!" came the stern mandate from the U boat.

"You'll have to obey, I fancy," said the sub. "There's no escape.

Perhaps they'll let you off, as the smack is only a very small one. If you give them any lip they'll cut up rough."

Deliberately Old Garge cut the trailing line of nets, bent the outward part to a life-buoy and cast it overboard. As he had remarked, nets were expensive affairs, and he was not going to cut them adrift without a means of recovering the gear should the Huns let him off lightly.

"Back your head-sails, Tim!" ordered the skipper, at the same time putting the helm hard down and allowing the _Fidelity_ to come up motionless into the wind, within a couple of yards of the bulging side of the U boat.

"Throw us a line!" was the peremptory greeting.

Agilely a fair-haired unter-leutnant boarded the smack, followed by three of his men. Giving a cursory glance at the fish-well, he said something in German to one of the seamen. In less than a minute the night's haul had been transferred to the captor.

"Low-down robbers!" muttered Old Garge under his breath, but the unter-leutnant caught the imprecation.

"Have a care," he said sternly, "or we sink your boat. What these men?

You carry a large crew for a little ship, Captain."

"They are my men," declared Old Garge loyally.

"Perhaps," drawled the German, then, suddenly turning, he strode up to Sefton and his brother.

"Hold your hand out!" he ordered.

Leslie sn.i.g.g.e.red. In his opinion the uniformed Hun ought to have added the words "Naughty boy". The lad was enjoying the novel experience. His one regret was that George Crosthwaite was not present to share in the adventure.

Critically the unter-leutnant examined Jack's extended hand. In spite of the fact that it was discoloured with tar, and reeked of fish, the sub's hand showed that it belonged to a person not of the ordinary working cla.s.s. The long, tapering fingers, manicured nails, and absence of h.o.r.n.y protuberances on the palm "gave him away".

"What is your name?" demanded the German.

"Smith," replied Sefton promptly.

Again the irritating, dubious, and speculative "Per-haps". The sub realized that he was in a tight corner.

"What this wound--how caused?" enquired the unter-leutnant, indicating the white scar on the young officer's wrist--the legacy of the affair off Jutland. "Ach! Sh.e.l.l wound, hein? You are of military age. Stand aside."

In spite of the brown jersey and the soiled serge trousers, the keen-witted Hun had come to the correct conclusion, that the tall, bronzed man was not a genuine smack hand. Not satisfied with the self-styled Smith's replies, he decided to interrogate his companion.

"Your name?" he demanded of Leslie, with a fierceness that effectually quenched all further inclination on the part of the youth to sn.i.g.g.e.r.

"Smith, too," replied Leslie. "He's my brother."