The Mystery Ship: A Story of the 'Q' Ships During the Great War

CHAPTER XXXI CHAPTER XXXI THE GREAT SURRENDER " Supposing the Huns won't sign," remarked Wakefield, somewhat wistfully. "They will," said Meredith reassuringly. "We've got them cold—absolutely." "And the sooner the better," added Jock McIntosh. "It was a close thing to say who would be fed up first—Fritz or us. Fritz did win that, but by a short length." "You are speaking for yourself, my lad," said Wakefield. "You can see your release in sight, but I'll bet you'll be wishing yourself back again before you're out six months." It was the morning of the memorable 11th day of November. The three M.L. skippers, just back from patrol, had foregathered in the ward-room of No. 1497 during the period known as "stand easy." The M.L.'s were lying in a fairly sheltered creek—one of the numerous indentations of Scapa Flow. Beyond a neck of rocky ground could be discerned a forest of tripod masts and lofty funnels, marking the war-time anchorage of the most powerful fleet that the world has yet seen. "You are a bit far-seeing, my festive," remarked Meredith. "I am," admitted Wakefield. "After four years of it, are we going to settle down to a humdrum life, rubbing shoulders with those blighters who stayed at home and made pots of money out of the Empire's days of supreme trial? Can you imagine yourself, Meredith, on the beach with all your kit, demobbed and with nothing to do? It'll come to that. The Government were jolly glad to get hold of us, and when the war is over it'll be a case of 'Thank you and get out.' There will be thousands of young fellows, used to command and innured to peril, who will be literally on their beam ends, because they never had the chance of completing their peace-time education." "There's the sea behind us," suggested Meredith. "Is there?" questioned Wakefield, "I doubt it, unless it's potting around in private yachts and small sailing-boats. We've learnt to handle M.L.'s pretty efficiently, but after the war you try for a post as skipper of a trading steamer. Think you'll get it? You won't. You'll be up against all the red tape of Board of Trade officialdom and all that sort of thing. But Fritz hasn't accepted the terms of the Armistice yet." "By the by," remarked Kenneth. "Have you heard any more news of Cumberleigh's pal, Karl von Preussen?" "Now, how could I?" expostulated Wakefield. "Haven't we been on patrol for umpteen hours? Just before we left we heard that he was being sent under escort to London." "He's a plucky fellow, in any case," observed McIntosh. "Deucedly daring," corrected Wakefield. "I don't know," remarked Meredith. "It may be pluck or daring, or both. Hanged if I should like the job! Yet both sides employ spies. These fellows go about their work with the utmost certainty of finding themselves up against a wall and looking down the muzzles of a dozen rifles if they're caught." "Seems to me it's a despicable sort of job," said Wakefield, as he relit his pipe. "Sort of stabbing-your-foeman-in-the-back business. If, for instance, von Preussen hadn't been at Auldhaig the chances are that Morpeth wouldn't have lost his arm, and a dozen or so Q 171's men wouldn't have been killed in action." "And yet, from von Preussen's point of view, his activities resulted in two Hun submarine-cruisers being prevented from being sent to the bottom," argued Meredith. "Put the boot on the other foot and imagine von Preussen working for us, you'd say he was a dashed smart fellow. Hello! here's Cumberleigh coming alongside." A dinghy had just brought the R.A.F. captain from the beach, and Cumberleigh was looking down the ward-room ladder. "Come down," sung out Meredith, who, since the informal gathering was held on his M.L., was master of the ceremonies. "We're discussing your friend, von Preussen. We were debating whether he were plucky or not." "He's slippery, at any rate," declared Cumberleigh, as he settled himself in one comer of the settee and lit a cigarette. "You know I was warned as a witness at the court-martial. Rotten job giving evidence against a fellow. To my mind it's like murdering him in cold blood. I was to have left for London this afternoon, but this morning I had a wire postponing the most unpleasant duty. Then I learnt from the adjutant that von Preussen was at liberty again." "Released?" asked Meredith and Wakefield in one voice. "After a fashion," replied Cumberleigh. "Details please?" "There are none—except that he managed to escape. However, I don't fancy von Preussen will count after to-day. The Armistice——" "Has it been signed?" asked McIntosh. Before Cumberleigh could reply there came a low roar of distant cheering, accompanied by the hooting of steam whistles and the long-drawn boom of sirens. "By Jove!" exclaimed Wakefield. The four officers started to their feet and scrambled indecorously for the ladder. Gaining the deck, they found the signalman of the anchored M.L.'s taking in a message from the swiftly moving arms of a shore semaphore. "What is it, Signalman?" inquired Meredith. "'Report rounds of quick-firing ammunition on board,' sir," was the unexpected reply. But on the heels of the first came a second signal—— "ARMISTICE SIGNED." The M.L. crews cheered lustily. Hostilities had ceased. Gone, for all time presumably, were those long, tedious vigils on the grey North Sea, those hazardous patrols through the mine-infested waters, those anxious nights when, blow high or blow low, the frail little craft had to put to sea on an apparently trivial errand. Germany had caved in. Without striking a blow, the powerful fleet with which the Kaiser had hoped to wrest the trident from Britannia's grasp was to pass into inglorious internment. The strangle-hold of the British Navy had triumphed. More than that. The Freedom of the Seas was established more firmly than before. In the subsequent words of Sir David Beatty, "The surrender of the German Fleet has secured the Freedom of the Seas for such as pass thereon upon their lawful occasions, and is a testimony to the value of sea power which the people of the British Empire will forget at their peril." A week later the vast anchorage of Scapa Flow was practically empty. The Grand Fleet had left for the Firth of Forth to arrange the actual surrender of the pick of Germany's battleships, cruisers and destroyers. Of the U-boats the first batch of a total of 120 was due to arrive at Harwich on the 20th, but "Beatty's Day" was fixed for the 21st. "Here's luck, Meredith," exclaimed Wakefield. "Five of us are to represent the M.L. flotillas, and have a joy-trip to meet Fritz. The S.N.O.'s just drawn the names. You're one, and so am I, so pack up and get ready. We're to be temporarily accommodated on board the Lion ." The Day dawned grey and misty as the mighty steel-clad battleships steamed eastward to meet their surrendering foes. Grey predominated everywhere, from the leaden-coloured skies to the leaden-hued water churned by the propellers of a hundred grey-hulled warships. The fluttering White Ensign and the Admirals' flags flying from the leading ships of each division provided a fitting contrast to the otherwise sombre yet soul-inspiring pageant of "Might and Right." "We're taking no risks," thought Meredith, as a bugle rang for "Action Stations." "It only shows how low a Hun's honour is rated." Silently yet rapidly the battle-cruiser's ship's company fell in at their appointed stations. The securing chains of the huge turrets were cast off and the monster guns trained and elevated to test the intricate mechanism. The quick-firers were manned and trained abeam, ammunition was sent up from the magazines, torpedoes launched home into the under-water tubes, fire hoses were coupled up and watertight doors closed. Officers and men, with gas-masks ready to hand, were keenly on the alert, those whose stations prevented them from seeing what was going on without plying their more fortunate comrades with eager questions. Kenneth and Wakefield were standing just under the fore-bridge. Above them every tier of "Monkey Island" bore its quota of sightseers, all looking steadily ahead into the grey mirk in a kind of competition as to who should first discern the masts of the expected Hun ships. "Think they'll show up? If so, will they fight?" asked Wakefield. A naval officer standing by answered him. "They'll show up all right. As to fighting, it's a toss up. Judging from our standpoint, I shouldn't be surprised if they did; but, by Jove! they will be smashed in twenty rounds." The whirr of an aerial propeller sounded overhead, and a large seaplane, literally skimming over the fore-topmast truck, raced noisily eastward, and was lost to sight in the grey dawn. Another, passing well to windward, followed, and then a huge airship, her yellow gas-bag glinting in the pale light, sailed serenely overhead at a great height. The scouts of the modern navy were at work. "They're coming, sir!" announced a messenger, as he flung himself at the bridge ladder. "Airship's just wirelessed through." "Then that's done it—one way or the other," murmured the naval officer. "I look like getting Christmas leave after all." Approaching rapidly, came the line of pale-grey Hun battle-cruisers, led by the British light cruiser Cardiff . As far as could be seen, they flew no ensigns. Either in fear or in shame they hesitated to hoist the dishonoured Black Cross—the battle-cruisers had figured prominently in the raid on Scarboro' and Hartlepool, and the Huns were far from comfortable at the thought of their reception. The German vessels had rigorously carried out the conditions of surrender. Their guns were trained fore and aft. The slightest deviation from that position would invite a veritable tornado of shells into the vitals of any ship that disregarded that command. Their own supply of ammunition had been left ashore, together with the war-heads of their torpedoes. The huge warships were like pythons with their poisonous fangs removed—formidable in appearance yet powerless to do harm. From the British flagship a string of bunting streamed in the wind. With mathematical precision the two parallel columns turned sixteen degrees in succession, so that the head of each line was parallel to and on the same course as the leading German vessel. Simultaneously the Huns hoisted their colours. Surrounded by a galaxy of White Ensigns, the Black Cross fleet was being shepherded into captivity, while the British battle-cruisers, led by the Lion , formed a supplementary column betwixt the Hun vessels and the British battleships following the mighty Queen Elizabeth . The "Cat Squadron" had been within sight and within range of the German battle-cruisers on more than one previous occasion, but for the first time since the outbreak of war the former were almost within hailing distance of the hitherto elusive but much-sought-after Seidlitz, Derfflinger, Moltke , and Von der Tann . And so into the Firth of Forth passed the Hun Armada on the first stage of the final journey to Scapa Flow. One signal did the gallant Beatty make. It was brief, peremptory, and left in its exactitude no possibility for doubt. It was sent to Admiral von Reuter, the Commander-in-Chief of the surrendered fleet: "The German Flag is to be hauled down at 15.57 to-day, Thursday, and is not to be hoisted again without permission." Precisely at sunset, the time mentioned in the signal, the Black Cross Ensign fluttered down on every Hun ship—but von Reuter had his tongue in his cheek. It was a fitting climax to the Bloodless Trafalgar of November 21, 1918. CHAPTER XXXII A NAVY IMPOTENT Throughout the winter and the following spring Kenneth Meredith still carried on at Scapa. Wakefield, too, was temporarily retained, but otherwise the band of R.N.V.R. officers and men of the M.L. patrol was steadily and rapidly diminishing. Almost brand-new boats would steam out for the last time, bound south to lie, neglected and forlorn, in a Hampshire river, where a tier, four-deep and lengthening daily, was one of the many signs that the Great War was practically over, even if Peace were not yet signed. Jock McIntosh was one of the first to be "demobbed." He went smilingly, confident of the future, yet something about him seemed to strike Meredith that his bright, almost jocular demeanour was a little simulated. There were reductions amongst the Air Force people, too. Blenkinson and Jefferson went almost at the same time, reluctantly, into an unaccustomed world to start life afresh, as it were—Blenkinson into an office, setting aside the "joy-stick" to take up the pen; Jefferson into slightly more congenial surroundings—to wit, a large motor business. Some months later Pyecroft went, via a demobilisation centre in the south of England, to take up the almost forgotten threads of study at an Engineering College. Of all the R.A.F. fellows who, by chance, had been Meredith's comrades on board Q 171, only Cumberleigh remained, "carrying on" until the order came for the Air Station to "pack up." During those months following the Armistice, Kenneth and Wakefield saw a good deal of Cumberleigh. Although there was much work to be done with the remaining M.L.'s, there was plenty of opportunity for leisure, and it was not to be wondered at that after months of strenuous and perilous occupation there was a decided tendency to "slack." Joy-riding, both afloat and in the air, was freely indulged in. For one thing, it "kept one's hand in," and it was better to make use of both boat and machine than to allow them to rust and deteriorate for want of use. Several times Meredith accompanied Cumberleigh on a flight in a blimp over the interned German fleet. It was a novel sensation, driving along at fifty miles an hour in a motor-propelled gas-bag above the now impotent Hun navy and observing battleship, battle-cruiser, cruiser and destroyer rusting at their respective moorings. "I can't imagine why we don't shunt those Huns," remarked Cumberleigh, during one flight. The ignition of both motors had been switched off and the blimp was floating almost motionless in the still air. "They're supposed to be 'care and maintenance parties,' but I'm hanged if I've ever seen them at work. The ships ought to have been surrendered and prize crews put on board." "Wakefield and I were talking to a pukka commander on the very subject," said Meredith. "He quite agreed that Fritz ought to be shunted, but it appears that the Allied Council insists upon the German ships being kept in a state of internment." "What for?" asked Cumberleigh. "Pending a decision as to their disposal," replied Meredith. "Personally I think it's rather a good scheme towing the lot out to sea and sinking them, as the Admiralty suggested." "Why?" asked the R.A.F. captain. "It would be a precious waste of good material." "It would," agreed Kenneth; "but at the same time it would do away with any danger of friction between the Allies as to the sharing-out deal. Without a doubt it was the British Navy that brought about the surrender. The Yanks, too, helped considerably. But neither we nor the Americans want the ships. France, Italy and Japan might; but there, you see, is a chance of squabbling. However, there they are, and seem likely to remain until Peace is signed." "At the same time it's a risky business leaving Fritz on board," declared Cumberleigh. "Everyone on the station is of the same opinion, but, I hear, the Commander-in-Chief is helpless in the matter. Virtually the ships are German territory, even though they daren't hoist their dirty flags." "And we cannot board them to see what's going on," added Meredith. "All we can do is to overhaul the weekly relief boat to see that she carries no war material. There was a yarn knocking around that the Huns were deliberately tampering with the big guns." "Yes," said Cumberleigh, "cutting deep grooves round the chases and filling them in with putty and paint, so that if they were fired they would burst and kill the guns' crews. That was authenticated, and photographs printed showing Fritz's rotten trick." "The Hun relief boat's due to-morrow," observed Meredith. "Wakefield and I have to meet her at the entrance to Pentland Firth. Like to come along with us?" "Delighted," replied Cumberleigh, as he motioned to the mechanic to "carry on." "Look there a minute," he added. "See that Hun just abaft the after-turret?" Kenneth levelled his binoculars upon the deck of the ship indicated—the giant Hindenburg . The blimp was barely five hundred feet up, and at that height it seemed as if one could touch the trucks of her mast with a fishing-rod. Standing on the quarter-deck was a burly German bluejacket. Others were sitting or sprawling on the formerly almost sacred deck, where no officer or man would step without saluting the Black Cross Ensign. The fellow had his head thrown back and was gazing upwards at the British coastal airship, the while making hideous grimaces and shaking his fist, while his comrades were laughing at his antics and doubtless applauding his expressions of anger. "Sort of thing you'd expect from a Hun," observed Cumberleigh. "He knows we can't strafe him, so I suppose he thinks he's getting some satisfaction in making faces at us." Meredith replaced his glasses. "Yes," he remarked. "Case of little things please little minds. Good heavens! Can you imagine our fleet lying in captivity at Kiel? I can't. And yet those fellows don't seem to realise their rotten position in the slightest." "Well, we've seen all that there is to be seen," said Cumberleigh. "Outwardly the Hun fleet seems in statu quo , but I'd like to know what's going on 'tween decks." "And so would a good many people," added Meredith. The noise of the motors interrupted further conversation, as the blimp, describing a graceful curve, headed for the distant sheds. The airship made a faultless descent. With plenty of hands available, she was guided into her lofty stable, while Meredith, declining an invitation to stay to lunch at the mess, bade Cumberleigh good-day. "And don't forget to-morrow," he added. "We are getting under way at nine." At the landing-stage he encountered Morpeth. "Been up?" inquired "Tough Geordie." "I mean to have a trip aloft before I finish here." "Find things a bit dull?" asked Kenneth. "A bit," admitted Morpeth. "Since the Grand Fleet pushed off there's not much doing. A fellow gets sick of looking at a crowd of Hun ships day after day and not knowing what's going on." "Eh?" inquired Kenneth curiously. "'Twouldn't have been my way with the brutes," explained Morpeth. "Practically leaving them to their own devices. We made them come out: why can't we put the stopper on them?" "What's the matter with your foot?" asked Meredith, noticing that his "companion walked with a slight limp. "For over four years," he said, "I never had a chance to lay a Fritz out. I don't call blowing a few dozen up the same thing. But I did to-day. I was up beyond Stenness, where you know the Huns are allowed the run of the show. Hanged if I didn't bear a woman yelling like billy-o. So I ran up in double quick time and found three Huns robbing her hen-roost. Took a fowl under her very nose, as cool as brass. When they saw me they looked a bit scared, until they found that I had only one arm and there was no one else about. Three of them to a one-armed man is about their mark. They showed fight. So did I. I forgot my missing arm and imagined I was handling Dagoes in the old Foul Anchor Line. Biffed one right in the jaw, staggered another on the solar plexus. The third hooked it." "And your foot?" "Travelled a little faster than the fellow who hooked it," replied Morpeth grimly. "Three knots faster, I'll allow, but I forgot that I was wearing thin shoes and not fat, solid sea-boots. By the way Fritz yelled I reckon I hurt him more than he did me, and he won't go robbing hen-roosts again in a hurry." "Have a trip to-morrow?" asked Meredith. "We're going out to look for the Hun relief ship. Cumberleigh's coming." "Suppose I can manage it," replied Morpeth. "I'll fix it up with my opposite number. Right-o. I'll be aboard by eight bells." CHAPTER XXXIII THE RELIEF VESSEL The next day dawned bright and clear. Hardly a ripple disturbed the placid surface of the Flow, although beyond the harbour the flood tide was boiling and seething through the Pentland Firth, with a roar that sounded like a continuous peal of thunder. M.L.'s 1497 and 1499 were ready to cast off when Cumberleigh stepped on board the former—Meredith's command. Morpeth had forestalled the R.A.F. officer by a good hour. "When do you pick her up?" inquired Cumberleigh, referring to the German vessel bringing stores and relief crews to the fleet in bondage. "I hope," he added anxiously, "that it won't be like that." He pointed to the turbulent tidal current. "We'll be miles outside that," replied Meredith. "I expect to sight her fifteen or twenty miles east of Duncansbay Head—off the Pentland Skerries, to be exact. Hullo! Wakefield's moving." With much spluttering of exhausts, No. 1499 swung out, gathered way, and headed for the open sea. "Let go for'ard... let go aft!" ordered Meredith. He invariably took the helm himself when leaving or approaching the harbour. A true son of the sea, he delighted in feeling the kick of the helm and the lift of the little craft to the curling waves. Yet, sadly, he realised that the time was drawing near when no more would he sail under the White Ensign and have the responsibility of command. For the future he would either relegate to an amateur yachtsman or go as a passenger on a pleasure steamer when he went afloat. Vaguely he wondered whether it would be anything like holding command. He thought not. He had had a letter from Pyecroft that morning. Pyecroft was literally eating his heart out in Bournemouth, already utterly fed up with civilian life. "I went up yesterday," he wrote. "They're running flights at two guineas a head in a Handley-Page. Couldn't resist it; but, by Jove! it was as dull as ditch-water having to watch another bloke at the joystick. Just fancy paying two guineas, when I was paid twelve bob a day in the Service for practically the same thing. And the price of everything! I never realised it when I was in the R.A.F. I tell you, it will knock the bottom out of my gratuity when I get it." "Sufficient is the day..." thought Meredith, and as the M.L. took the first comber over her sharp bows and flung a shower of spray completely over the fluttering pennant, he threw forebodings to the winds. "Fine little boat, eh, what?" he exclaimed, addressing Morpeth, who like an old war-dog was revelling in the sensation of being afloat once more. "Take her, if you like." "Tough Geordie" did so with alacrity. To him it was a novel sensation. Apart from the fact that he was no longer commander of a vessel, and had perforce to spend his time superintending the embarking and landing of bluejackets and naval stores, he had been used to handling ships of large tonnage. To him No. 1497 appeared like a swift skimming-dish, and required but little helm to make her turn almost in her own length. "Fine little craft!" he declared enthusiastically. "Takes some getting used to. I feel like a carter riding a Derby winner. Hello! Destroyer on our starboard quarter." "Yes," said Meredith. "She stands by while we board—just a matter of precaution, you know. We can run alongside a vessel; but if she took on the boarding stunts he'd have to lower a boat." He gave orders for the M. L. to show her distinguishing number, then, having received the acknowledgment from the destroyer, Meredith told off one of the crew to take the helm. An hour and a half later the two M.L.'s arrived at the rendezvous. There was no sign of the Hohenhoorn —the expected relief ship. "Another dirty trick of Fritz's to keep us barging about in a seaway," bawled Wakefield through a megaphone. "Sorry I can't have you fellows on board to lunch." "Don't want any, thanks," replied Cumberleigh feelingly. It was a far different motion, running dead slow in an M.L., from that of the heavily-ballasted Q 171. He was beginning to feel unpleasantly warm in the region immediately below the buckle of his belt. "Nothing like a little rifle practice to buck a fellow up," shouted Wakefield. "I'll tow a bottle astern. Bet you fifty cigarettes you don't smash it in a dozen rounds." "Done," replied Cumberleigh; and the skipper of M.L. 1499 proceeded to carry out his share of the programme. Even at a bare five knots the bottle was a difficult target as it bobbed and zigzagged in the wake of the M.L. At the sixth shot Cumberleigh began to lose his optimism; at the ninth he looked positively glum; at the eleventh, that ricochetted clean over the target, he turned to Meredith. "The barrel isn't leaded, is it?" he inquired. "I had the beastly bottle dead on the sights every time." "One more to go," observed Kenneth. Cumberleigh raised the rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim, and pressed the trigger. The bullet struck the water a couple of yards beyond the untouched target. "You've won," shouted Cumberleigh. "Have you a pistol on board?" inquired Morpeth, who had been a silent but interested spectator. "Yes," replied Kenneth. "I'll borrow it, then," continued Morpeth. "Ahoy, there! Will you take me on the same terms?" "Right-o," replied Wakefield. "A hundred yards," commented "Tough Geordie," thrusting the weapon under the stump of his left arm, and opening the breech to ascertain that the chambers were loaded. Without any apparent effort, and with what appeared to be a careless movement, Morpeth raised the weapon. "Bang! bang! bang!" it barked in quick succession. "A hit!" exclaimed Cumberleigh enthusiastically, as the bottle leapt almost clear of the swirling wake. "No," replied Morpeth. "I've only cut the towline." Thrice more the heavy pistol barked. At the sixth shot the bottle, smashed to fragments, disappeared from view. "Not bad," commented Morpeth modestly. "Considering the lively platform, it wasn't a bad shot." "A capital shot, by Jove!" declared Kenneth. "S'pose I'm a bit out of practice," exclaimed the R.N.R. officer. "It used to be a favourite pastime in the old Foul Anchor Line. You see, if a Dago thought of using a knife, he'd consider twice when he knew a fellow could shoot straight. For my own part, I'd as lief use my fist in a close scrap, but you can't hit a periscope at two hundred yards with your fist. One of our skippers shattered one at two hundred—that was early in '15, when Fritz wasn't so careful as he was later—and it wasn't all luck either. He was a good shot, and no mistake." By this time Cumberleigh's threatened indisposition had passed away, and when a little later the Hohenhoorn was sighted he had completely regained his sea-legs. In answer to an International Code signal the German vessel slowed down, and finally lost way within a couple of cables' lengths of Meredith's command. "Coming aboard?" inquired Kenneth, as No. 1497 ran alongside the towering hull of the Hun ship. Cumberleigh mentally measured the length of the wire rope ladder that had been let down from the vessel's bulwarks. Many a time he had clambered out of the fuselage of a blimp at anything up to five thousand feet, but the swinging monkey ladder as it flogged the side of the rolling ship was quite another proposition. He was on the point of declining the invitation when, looking up, he caught sight of a German officer regarding him with a supercilious smile. "Yes, I'm coming," he replied. "But one minute." Meredith paused in the act of making a cat-like spring, and stepped back a couple of paces. "What is it?" he asked. "See that fellow? He's an old acquaintance—von Preussen, to be exact." "Never," declared Meredith incredulously. "He wouldn't dare risk it." "He has, at any rate," said Cumberleigh. "More, he knows we can't touch him. Logically he's on German soil, and in a German vessel that's been given safe conduct." "I suppose you're right," admitted Kenneth regretfully. "All I can do is to report to the S.N.O." "That may stop his little game—for he's up to some mischief, I'll be bound," said Cumberleigh. "Right-o, I'll follow you!" The boarding-party, consisting of Meredith, Cumberleigh, a petty officer and two bluejackets, negotiated the ladder with no casualty beyond a few barked knuckles. Meredith, receiving and returning the German captain's salute, asked for the ship's papers. "And what is Herr von Preussen doing on board?" he demanded abruptly. "It vos mein order," replied the skipper of the Hohenhoorn . "Dis Zherman scheep." "Quite," agreed Meredith. "At the same time I warn you that von Preussen's presence will be reported, and it would be well if he refrained from any activities that will certainly lead to trouble. Now, I'll look under hatches." A systematic search of the holds revealed nothing in the nature of the cargo beyond what was stated in the official documents. Everything, apparently, was in order. "Now I'll see what's aft," declared the boarding officer. Again there was nothing to elicit suspicion, but as Kenneth passed along the main deck he saw something covered by a tarpaulin. Lifting one comer, there was what appeared to be a huge pile of evergreens. "What's that for?" he inquired. "It's rather too early for Christmas." "Ja, Herr Kapitan," agreed the German. "Dese are for—how you call it?—Ach, I haf it: wreaths. It is a Zherman officer that vos died, an' dese are tribute from der Vaderland." "Then he must be deeply lamented," thought Kenneth, as he moved on. Then, filled with well-grounded suspicion, he stopped abruptly. "Just shift those things," he ordered, addressing the two members of the M.L.'s crew. "It would be well to see if anything's underneath, although Fritz would, I take it, choose a craftier hiding-place." The men obeyed, the German officer making no protest. They were genuine evergreens, and on plucking a leaf Kenneth found that the sap was still fresh. "All right. Put them back and carry on," he ordered. Meanwhile, Karl von Preussen—spy, ex-officer of the Prussian Guards, and now wearing a naval uniform—was holding Cumberleigh in conversation. "Ah, good morning, Cumberleigh," he exclaimed with all the assurance possible, and extended his right hand. "Delighted to see you again." "For what reason?" asked the R.A.F. captain, ignoring the Hun's hand. "It is good to meet old acquaintances," continued the unabashed German. "Now the war is over we must be friends, and get back to our old footing. I, for example, am looking forward to visiting London again, but in a different capacity than on the last occasion." "Might I remind you that the war is not yet over," said Cumberleigh coldly. "Practically so," protested von Preussen. "So let bygones be bygones. I myself bear you no animosity for knocking me down on Wick pier. It was an unfortunate mistake for me to have been there. I ought to have known better. But on the other hand I thank you for your excellent entertainment at the mess at Auldhaig. The lunch was splendid, but I am afraid I cannot say the same for your entertainment of me on the fishing expedition. It caused me a considerable amount of inconvenience." "And more to me," added Cumberleigh. "By the by, what are you doing on board?" "I am following a temporary post as assistant secretary to Admiral von Reuter," explained von Preussen without hesitation. "It is mainly on account of my knowledge of England and the English. I am sorry you are so stand-offish, Captain Cumberleigh. It is hardly the way to treat a man who has worn the same uniform as yourself. Remember me to Jefferson, Pyecroft and Blenkinson, also other old acquaintances at Auldhaig, if you should come across them. There is some one else I should like to send a message to—a Mr. Entwistle. I believe you have met him. Well, I see your friend has completed his examination of the Hohenhoorn , so we must part. Until our next meeting!" "What has that poisonous blighter to say?" inquired Meredith, as the boarding-party returned to the M.L. "A lot," replied Cumberleigh. "He's no fool, and in spite of his assurances I firmly believe he's something up his sleeve. I'd like to have him in irons as a matter of precaution." "Same here," rejoined Meredith. "But it can't be did, you know. He's pinning his faith on the old saying, 'An Englishman's word is his bond'; and there you are." "Precisely," admitted Cumberleigh. CHAPTER XXXIV THE SCUTTLING " I say , old bean!" exclaimed Cumberleigh. "Can you give me a good tip?" "For what?" inquired Meredith cautiously. "It's like this," explained the R.A.F. officer. "I've three days' leave. Why I've been granted it is a mystery, as one doesn't get much in the R.A.F. without asking for it. However, that is a digression. The bald facts of the case are I have three days' leave, which means that I have to report for duty on Monday. Now it's perfectly obvious that I can't get home and back in the time; I haven't the cheek to wire for an extension, so what can I do to spend the time?" "You miserable blighter!" exclaimed Kenneth laughing, "Do you mean to tell me you didn't know we were running round to Aberdeen?" "Guilty, m'lud," confessed Cumberleigh. "I may as well admit that I was fishing for an invite. More'n that, I've packed my kit-bag in anticipation of a sea-trip for the benefit of my health." It was now summer. In the warm long-drawn days the Orkneys were at their best. Forgotten almost were those strenuous periods of patrol amidst the fierce winter gales and snowstorms—or at least time mellowed the reminiscences, partly obliterating the dark phases and keeping alive the pleasing episodes of the Long, Long Trick. M.L. 1497 had been ordered to convey a small bulk of naval stores to Aberdeen—articles urgently required but not sufficient to warrant the use of a naval storeship. The run was a short one—a little over 100 miles. It would give the crew a few hours ashore to see the sights of The Granite City. "Wakefield's not coming along, I suppose?" asked Cumberleigh. "No; he's on Inner Patrol," replied Kenneth. "I'm short-handed, too; had to land my Sub yesterday. Got mumps or some other cheerful thing—no, don't look alarmed. It was my mistake. Toothache. I knew it was something with a swollen face about it. In a way it's a blessing in disguise. There's a bunk waiting for you." Almost without incident, the run to Aberdeen was accomplished in record time. The motors ran without a hitch, and carrying a favourable tide most of the way M.L. 1497 averaged 19 knots "over the ground." "Enough for to-day," remarked Meredith as the M.L. was safely berthed, and he was changing into shore-kit in the ward-room. "I'll give general leave till eleven to-night. One man will have to remain on board. Now, then, Cumberleigh, my dear old thing——" "Gentleman to see you, sir," called out one of the men. "Who the——" began Meredith wonderingly. He had no acquaintances in Aberdeen as far as he knew. But the next instant he gave an exclamation of pleasurable surprise as a well-known voice exclaimed: "Eh, laddie, I thought 'twas you I saw coming in past the North Pier." "Jock McIntosh, by the powers!" ejaculated Meredith. "Come on down. By Jove! This is great—absolutely." It was Jock, but not the Jock of yore. McIntosh was rigged out in civilian clothes of distinctly post-war quality. He had lost the alertness that he had acquired, despite his heavy build, during his service afloat. He descended the steep ladder awkwardly, his heavy boots clattering and slipping on the brass treads of the steps. "Eh, lad," he remarked, "but you were about right. I'm downright sorry I'm out of it. Life ashore is a bit dour, and when I saw you bringing the old packet into harbour I'd have given my last shilling to have been in sea-rig again." "Cheer up," said Meredith. "We'll all be in the same boat before very long. Demobbing is going strong just at present. What are you doing in Aberdeen?" "Buying a boat," replied Jock simply. "What? Buying a boat?" exclaimed Kenneth. "What sort of boat? I thought you'd had enough of the sea." "A good many of us thought that," said McIntosh soberly. "I was mistaken. It's the call of the sea, d'ye ken? So half a dozen of us, all out of the Motor-Boat crush, have pooled and bought a drifter. There's money in it... and we'll be afloat. You must come along, see the old boat, and be introduced to the lads." "Glad to," replied Meredith. "So you're going fishing?" Jock shook his head. "No; coastal trade," he replied. "Running up along to Peterhead, Frazerburgh, Banff and perhaps Wick. The autumn we'll go south. Some of the fellows were in the Dover Patrol and at Scilly. There's freight always to be picked up." "That chap's on a sound scheme," remarked Cumberleigh, when McIntosh had gone ashore. "Yes; and he was always talking of what he was going to do on the beach when the War was over," said Kenneth. "There were dozens of M.L. fellows who ran yachts before the war. Now there's a chance—a good chance—to combine business with pleasure and go in for the coasting trade. It's worth thinking over." Early next morning M.L. 1497 discharged her small but valuable consignment of Government stores, filled up with petrol, and awaited instructions. Somewhat to Meredith's disappointment, came telegraphic orders:— "Proceed at once." "It means a night trip," observed Meredith. "Fortunately it's calm and the nights are short. It will rather upset your leave, old man, to find yourself back at Scapa to-morrow." "Anything wrong, I wonder?" asked Cumberleigh. "Don't suppose so," replied Kenneth. "Merely a brain wave on the part of some shore-loafing minion in the S.N.O.'s office. However, 'a norder's a norder; an' it's a nard life,' as I once overheard a matloe remark." Apparently M.L. 1497 was in no hurry to return to her base, for shortly after midnight her engines "konked." For some hours she wallowed in the swell a few miles from the shores of Caithness, while sweating mechanics struggled with sooted plugs and choked jets. It was broad daylight before the trouble was overcome, and the M.L. was able to resume her interrupted return run. "I wonder what von Preussen is doing," remarked Cumberleigh, as the rocky shores of the Orkneys appeared above the horizon. "Somehow I've got the idea that he was up to some mischief when we spotted him aboard the Hohenhoorn ." "Shouldn't be surprised," agreed Meredith. "I reported the incident, but nothing seems to have been done. Unfortunately our people are hampered by the Allied Congress; otherwise the Huns wouldn't be on board now—nearly six months after the Armistice." A quarter of an hour later Kenneth raised his binoculars. "Seems much the same old show," he observed. "Fritz is still occupying the best berths in Scapa Flow. Wonder why we were recalled so hurriedly? Hello! There's old Wakefield coming out to meet us." M.L. 1499 approached rapidly, then turning sixteen points to port, drew within hailing distance. "What's wrong?" shouted Meredith through a megaphone. "Nothing, as far as I know," replied Wakefield. "Why are you back so soon?" "Ask me another," rejoined Kenneth. "I was afraid we had orders to pack up." "I've heard nothing more about demobilisation," said Wakefield. "So it's not that." "Who said there was nothing wrong?" inquired Cumberleigh, pointing with outstretched arm towards the German vessels. "They've hoisted their ensigns." "So they have, by Jove!" exclaimed Meredith. "What does it mean? Surely the Peace Conference blokes haven't restored the ships to Germany? Wakefield, look! Germans have hoisted their colours." Somewhere in the grey distance came the report of a gun, followed by another. A British destroyer was taking drastic measures to deal with the flagrant breach of Beatty's peremptory order. "Whack her up!" ordered Meredith through the voice-tube. "All out." The motor mechanics responded smartly. M.L. 1497 simply tore through the water. "They're sinking!" exclaimed Cumberleigh. "Every one of them. The dirty dogs: they're scuttling the fleet!" There was no doubt about it. Already seven destroyers were awash. The larger vessels were heeling with distinct rapidity. The giant Hindenburg was practically on her beam ends, while her meagre crew, prepared for the consequences of the dastardly act, had already taken to the boats and were watching the mammoth vessel in her death-throes. Close by, the Seidlitz, Derfflinger and other Hun battle-cruisers were going down with flying colours, not gloriously in the heat of battle but ignominiously scuttled by their crews. Further on the Bayern , the most powerful battleship of the German navy, was capsizing. With a loud crash her heavy guns in superimposed turrets burst from their armoured bases. For a while the vessel's list was checked, until, under the action of the terrific inrush of water through her open sea-cocks, she lay completely over on her beam ends. Then, still heeling, her barnacle-covered bottom and bilge-keel showed above a smother of foam, like the back of an enormous whale. The next instant she had disappeared. Already the crews of the M.L.'s 1497 and 1499 were at action stations. On his part Kenneth Meredith realised that he could do nothing to save the larger ships. There might be a chance of preventing the foundering of some of the Hun destroyers, and he meant to try. Passing astern of the line of sinking battle-cruisers, Kenneth made straight for a large destroyer of the V-class that for some unknown reason was settling down slower than her consorts. His course lay close to three or four boats manned by German officers and bluejackets, who viewed the rapidly-moving M.L.'s with considerable apprehension. Possibly they expected a few shells from the patrol boats' quick-firers. Up went their hands above their heads, and the now monotonous cry of "Kamerad!" rose from the craven crews. Paying no heed to the boats, although the "wash" from the M.L. gave the finishing touch to the "wind up" stunt, Kenneth brought his command alongside the destroyer. Her crew were still on board, but were preparing to take to the boats. With levelled revolver Kenneth climbed over the destroyer's rail and covered the unter-leutnant in charge. "Have those sea-cocks closed instantly!" he ordered. For a moment the Hun hesitated, but the stern face and set jaw of the Englishman gave him warning that delay meant trouble. He turned and gave a hurried order to some of the men. They hurried below, while to make sure that they would reclose the valves Kenneth ordered the hatches to be secured until the work was properly done. Meanwhile two of the M.L.'s crew were at work for'ard, knocking out the Senhouse slip, and thus freeing the vessel from her mooring. "All clear, sir!" shouted one of the hands. Returning to the M.L., Meredith ordered "Easy ahead, starboard engine." Still lashed alongside, No. 1497 had a stiff task to tow the partly flooded Hun, but gradually the two vessels gathered way. The nearest shoal water was a bare two cables' length away, and great was Meredith's delight when he heard the destroyer's forefoot grate on the hard bottom. "She'll do: tide's falling," he observed. "Get those Huns out of it, Cumberleigh. Order them to embark in their own boat and row ashore. We may be in time to save another.... By Jove! I'll collar that ensign as a souvenir." Although Cumberleigh boosted the Huns pretty severely, there was considerable delay before M.L. 1497 could cast off. It was evident that she had reached her limit in the salvage line. The Hun vessels were nearly all gone. A few had been beached through the prompt action of the British patrol and harbour service vessels. By the time Meredith gave the order for "Easy astern," the vast anchorage, crowded a brief half-hour previously, was now bare save for small craft and boats laden with Germans, who, now that their act of melodramatic bravado was accomplished, were wondering what the result of their gross breach of faith would entail. There was flotsam everywhere. The water was covered with oil and wreckage, and the M.L.'s and other craft had to exercise great caution lest their propellers should foul the drifting planks and spars as they cruised round, shepherding the Huns to a place of safe custody. "By Jove! Look!" exclaimed Kenneth, calling Cumberleigh's attention to a large circular mass of foliage. "Looks like a wreath," observed the R.A.F. officer. "Exactly," agreed Meredith. "There were dozens of them on board the Hohenhoorn . The blighters said they were for an officer's funeral—a ship's funeral, if you like. And there's another one." There were, in fact, scores, each wreath entwined with red, white and black ribbons and bearing the name of the ship on which it had been placed when the act of scuttling was performed—a circumstance which tends to prove that the violation of the Armistice terms had been connived at by the existing German government. "Who's that semaphoring?" asked Cumberleigh, indicating a steam pinnace about three hundred yards away, in the stern-sheets of which a bluejacket was waving a pair of hand-flags. Kenneth levelled his glasses. Simultaneously one of the M.L.'s crew prepared to receive the message. "It's Geordie Morpeth," exclaimed Meredith. "His old packet's broken down and he's getting his signalman to ask us for a tow." "Will—you—come—alongside?" read out the receiving signalman. "They don't give a reason, sir," he added; "but it looks as if they've fouled some wreckage." Very cautiously M.L. 1497 approached the apparently disabled steam pinnace. "Ahoy, there!" shouted Kenneth. "What's wrong?" Morpeth swung his arm in the direction astern. "We've got some one in tow," he replied. "I knew Captain Cumberleigh was aboard you, and he might be interested." Sitting on the engine-room casing were half a dozen Germans, including an unter-leutnant, all dripping wet and looking thoroughly dejected. "Just lugged 'em out of the ditch," remarked Morpeth, stating what was an obvious fact. "But that's not what I hailed you for. Just look aft." What had appeared to be at first sight a tangle of debris caught in the steam pinnace's propeller was one of the German funeral wreaths. In the centre was the body of a man, his feet secured to the stern-sheets by means of a running bowline. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Cumberleigh. "It's von Preussen." "And as dead as a door-nail," added Morpeth. "I had an account to settle with him, too; but it's wiped out now. No; it wasn't my doings. One of their boats got swamped, so I went to the rescue. There was von Preussen hanging on to a life-buoy and looking as pleased as a dog with two tails—gloating over his share in the dirty work, I suppose. We weren't more than twenty yards off when there was an explosion—compressed air, you know. Up came a jagged plank and heaved von Preussen almost clear of the water. Killed him in half a shake. And then one of these wreaths came up and floated alongside of him just as we were slipping a bowline round his feet." "Poor devil!" ejaculated Cumberleigh. "It's strange that he met his fate that way. Sort of Nemesis." "Perhaps it was as well," added Meredith. "He would have been in a pretty hole had he got ashore." "Rather," agreed Morpeth. "Every Fritz, officer and man, is being shoved under arrest. Old von Reuter, the Admiral, is collared too. There's one thing: the Allies can't squabble over the disposal of the Hun Fleet now; so Fritz has unwittingly done us a good turn. Well, cheerio. I'll run my little lot of Huns across to the beach. Cheerful-looking cargo, eh?" Going dead slow, the steam pinnace headed towards the pier, the corpse of the spy towing astern; while M.L. 1497 "carried on," patrolling the land-locked waters upon which but a brief hour ago floated the fleet by which the German Emperor had hoped, and hoped in vain, to obtain the domination of the world.

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