The Cruise of the Dry Dock

T >> T. S. Stribling >> The Cruise of the Dry Dock

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"Yes, this is for----" He swung up his crowbar.

Madden on the other side the gasoline-scented chamber had a sensation as
if someone had jabbed keen needles into his throat, breast, stomach.

"Caradoc! Don't! Don't!" he screamed and leaped toward the desperate
man.

It was all done at once.

"For England!" completed Caradoc Smith, and fetched down a furious
doubled-handed blow on the primer of the big steel chamber packed with
guncotton.

The crowbar landed with a crash!

CHAPTER XVII

THE GET-AWAY

Both lads leaned against the machinery, limp, dripping cold
perspiration. Caradoc was the first to speak.

"Didn't have its war head in!"

Leonard mumbled something through the slime in his mouth.

"I ought to find the connection and explode it," repeated Caradoc
doggedly.

Madden moved weakly over beside him. "No you won't. You aren't going to
murder us all... not going to do it!"

Caradoc remained motionless, his long face gray under the electric
lights. "I fail--at everything," he mumbled.

Leonard sat down on the edge of the torpedo case and looked at the long,
slender destroyer. He had a watery feeling, as if just arising from a
long illness.

"Let's get out of here," he breathed.

"Wait... we must seem normal. You--you look blue--spotted."

"I feel blue and spotted. I was scared--never was so scared in all my
life."

"Sit here till you get over your j-jolt."

"What are you going to do?" asked the American apprehensively as Smith
arose.

"I must disable this machinery and give the tug a chance to escape."

"Still got that in your head?"

"I must do _something_--I ought to explode that torpedo!"

"You're not going to do that, Caradoc. You're not! I have no--no
appetite to be a martyr."

The Englishman made no reply, but began moving around among the
machinery with the crowbar. Leonard stirred himself to follow.

"You--you're not up to anything--not going to blow us up?"

"No, I'm not going to blow you up. That's my word."

Oddly enough, Madden accepted it very simply, and went back and sat on
the torpedo case. He fell to stroking the smooth steel flank of the
thing as if it were some animal. The thing had, as it were, refused to
blow him to bits at Smith's request.

The Englishman walked about busily, thrusting his bar in among dial
connections, snapping brass pipes, wrecking the telephone connections.
He laid about him viciously, knocking, crashing, smashing. Then he
hurried back into the rear compartment, knocked to pieces the bearings
and valves of the Deisel engine, tangled up the wiring of the storage
batteries and the dynamo, beat off her brushes, disrupted the clutch on
the crank shaft.

It was shocking to Madden to see Caradoc smash and destroy such delicate
and costly machinery. He went about his task with a kind of bottled
ferocity, and in a short time the submarine looked as if it had let
loose a cyclone. Presently the youth paused in his vandalism and glanced
about with satisfaction.

"All right," he said in a more normal tone, "if you are ready to go, get
a wrench and a cold-chisel, smudge your face with a little oil and iron
black, and we'll get away from here."

Madden saw the importance of completing his disguise in this manner. He
splotched his face, found the tools indicated by Smith in the locker,
then walked out through the manhole into the passageway once more.

There was no one in sight as they came out. They passed up through the
cool refrigerating room and through the machine shop with its contented
workmen. Madden wondered how those men would feel if they knew that a
few minutes past, they were hanging on the fringe of eternity.

The two smudged tool-bearers, who walked rather shakily to the upper
deck, did not even provoke a questioning glance from the workmen. A few
minutes later the boys emerged once more from the sleeping deck onto the
boat deck. It was still deserted save for the solitary guard who paced
back and forth in stiff military fashion.

Caradoc moved down to the hanging laundry and paused under the port
hood. He tapped it gently. From the interior came Malone's thick
whisper. Smith passed in the tools and whispered.

"Force the door open gently. Walk out as if you were sailors. Close the
door and pretend to lock it. Meet me out here at the head of the ship's
ladder, where the guard is stationed."

"Very well, sir," came a whisper.

Then Madden and Smith strolled on down toward the man with the gun. As
they walked, Smith whispered:

"When you hear me clear my throat, get within striking distance. When I
cough, silence him. I'll help you."

Madden nodded slightly, and the two drew near the pacing guard. Caradoc
lifted hand to forehead as they passed and a little later seated
themselves on the rail near the ladder. Madden looked down curiously and
thought he could make out the shape of the dinghy below, but was not
certain.

The American's nerves still tingled from the torpedo incident, and now
he glanced out of the tail of his eye at the guard, whom he would
probably have to fight.

The fellow was a broad-chested, short-necked German, armed with rifle
and bayonet. The bayonet had a bluish gleam under the incandescent.

It was a queer thought to Madden to know that within the next fifteen
minutes, he would perhaps be under rifle fire, rowing or swimming away
through the black night, or he might be dead. Dead, and the world would
end for him, and the war of the world or the peace of the world would be
all the same for him.

Madden shrugged his shoulders, drew a long breath and stared out in the
direction of the _Vulcan_. He could see nothing of the tug. The
moon had sunk and the stars burned with a more vivid fire. The musing
boy noted the position of the Hydra, and fancied it might be somewhere
near midnight. Just then his guess was confirmed by four double strokes
of the bell. There would be a change of guards. Perhaps the next man
would not be so unsuspecting.

Just then Madden observed another deck gang coming up the promenade. He
wondered how often they scrubbed deck on this vessel. He hoped this crew
would soon pass, as it would make escape impossible if their men made a
break while the sweepers were in hearing. Their slow approach made him
nervous. Suppose one of them suspected something wrong?

Just then Caradoc yawned and cleared his throat. Madden looked around at
his friend with a slight start. The Englishman did not see the
approaching sailors. Madden frowned conspicuously, but Smith's long face
was placid, and he cleared his throat again.

The guard was now about to pass Madden. The American shifted his legs
slightly for a position to jump, nevertheless frowning warningly at
Caradoc. The scrubbers were fairly close now. Caradoc arose negligently
and coughed.

In the teeth of the scrub gang, Madden leaped headlong at the guard and
his fingers gripped the man's throat. At the same instant, Caradoc
ducked under his legs. As the foremost of the scrub gang wrenched the
rifle from the guard's hands, Madden saw with joy that they were Malone
and his men. The three fell with a dull thumping on the deck. The guard
tore at Madden's fingers which crushed in his throat. From underneath,
Caradoc panted in sharp whispers:

"Overboard! Down the ladder! Quick!"

As he snapped out his orders, the Englishman was working his hold up
past the floundering guard's waist. Madden's grip was about to break
under the strain the Teuton put on it, but his fingers clung desperately
to the fellow's throat, for one shout would bring a hornet's nest around
the fugitives. Just then Malone whispered hoarsely:

"They're all overboard, sir."

Leonard caught the soft stir of oars in the water below.

"Shall Hi stick 'im, sir?" whispered Malone, grabbing the guard's
bayoneted rifle. "Yonder, comes the new guard!"

Caradoc, who had been willing to blow up a whole shipful of men, panted
out a sharp "No!" Just then the Englishman's long fingers slipped up on
the tendons that ran down the guard's neck from his ears. He pinched
them sharply. The struggling man suddenly gasped and lay still. Caradoc
leaped to his feet. Madden scrambled up. Both were dripping with sweat.
A man with a rifle was running down the deck toward them. The fellow
raised his rifle.

"Overboard!" gasped Caradoc and took a sudden leap over the rail into
the night. Madden followed, trusting not to hit the dinghy and kill
himself. Malone was already scrambling down the rope ladder as fast as
he could go.

While a dive of one or two hundred feet is not uncommon, still Madden's
thirty-five foot drop sent chill tickly sensations through his chest and
throat. It seemed as if he would never stop falling through the
darkness, but at last he struck the water and went down, down, down.

When he finally kicked himself back to the surface and thrust his head
out, he heard a violent whispering among the excited boatmen. A moment
later an oar struck him under the armpit. Madden seized it, whispered
his own name and scuttled in over the gunwale. The men were shoving
desperately at the ship's side in an effort to get the dinghy under way.

From the deck overhead came guttural shouts in German and fainter
answers. Fortunately the guard did not take upon himself the
responsibility of shooting down into the boat, and in a minute or two
the refugees had assembled the oars and were rowing furiously from the
mother ship.

In the dim zone of light that belted the promenade, Madden could see a
number of hurrying figures. Then came a sharp command, and a rifle
stabbed the darkness with a knife of fire and a keen report.

Immediately came another, then another, then several. Bullets chucked
viciously into the water about the dinghy.

Under the straining arms of four oarsmen the little boat moved briskly
out of its perilous position. Jammed between two sailors, the boy sat
staring back at the men gathering on the promenade. The flashing of many
rifles kept a constant streak of light along a considerable section of
the deck. Bullets seemed to whine within an inch of his ears. The dinghy
appeared to be retreating at a snail's pace, and the frightened boy
gripped furiously at the gunwale in an absurd effort to speed it up. He
twisted about, trying to keep his shoulders in a line with the flashing
rifles so as to offer the thinnest target. A man in the stern of the
dinghy groaned, and slumped down into the bottom.

Just then a searchlight leaped into play from the top deck of the ship.
Its long ray shot out in a trembling cone through the darkness. It
switched here and there with appalling swiftness. The crew in the little
boat stared at it, holding their breaths. When that leaping ray fell on
the dinghy it would be followed by a rain of steel.

The firing on the promenade deck ceased, Waiting for the searchlight to
direct their aim. Just then the beam fell on the _Vulcan_ with
dazzling brilliance. The tug stood out sharply against the night, and
she proved to be much closer than Leonard had fancied. The little
rowboat had been traveling faster than he thought.

Then the brilliant circle left the tug and, began crawling carefully
over the water toward the dinghy.

The crew stared at the approaching light as stricken birds in a snake's
cage. Just then Caradoc said in a low tone. "Let every man slide into
the water and swim for the _Vulcan_."

The men in the stern slipped into the sea first with muffled splashes.
The men amidship climbed over the side and went in headfirst. The
oarsmen shipped their oars and took the water. Madden made a long dive
over the side and shot well away from the little boat. When he came up,
he looked around. The fringe of light was just playing on the bow when
Caradoc leaped. According to English traditions, he was the last man to
leave his vessel, even though it were only a dinghy.

An instant later, a queer metallic ripping sound broke out in the mother
ship. Madden looked back quickly. From the top deck there was a jet of
fire, as if someone were turning a hose of flame in the direction of the
small boat. Leonard looked back at the dinghy. It appeared as if the ray
of light were beating the little vessel into splinters. It seemed to
crumble into itself, to wither, to go to dust, and the water beneath it
beat up in a froth through its shattered hull.

A head bobbed up near Madden, and Caradoc's voice observed collectedly.

"They're chewing it up with a machine gun. You'd better dive
again--travel most of the way to the tug under water. They'll be picking
us up, one at a time, in a moment, with the same stream of steel."

CHAPTER XVIII

NERVE VERSUS GUNPOWDER

Fifteen minutes later a dozen men were kicking exhaustedly in the water
on the port side of the _Vulcan_, shouting in urgent voices for
ropes. A few were already clambering up the bobstays. There was no reply
from the utterly terrorized men on the tug, then came the whiz of
missiles thrown through the air.

"Hogan! Mulcher! Galton! Ropes! Give us your ladder!" bawled Madden at
the top of his authority.

"Is--is that you, Misther Madden?" chattered Hogan.

"Yes, yes, ropes, before we drown!"

"Was that you shootin' at us over there?"

"They were shooting at _us_! They hit two or three of us! Hurry!"

"And who's all that wid ye? Faith, the wather's alive wid min!"

"We're the crew of th' _Vukan_!" "Throw down ropes!" "Shut up and
throw down ropes, ye bloody Irishman!" howled an angry chorus.

"Th' crew o' th' _Vulcan_, and thim all dead, these weeks ago! Sure
if it's a lot o' ghosts----"

But others of the crew summoned enough courage to fling down aid to
their old comrades, and soon the men came crawling up the dark sides of
the tug and dropped limply inboard.

The utmost excitement played over the crew of the dock when they
identified the former crew of the _Vulcan_. The air was full of
excited questions and tired answers, but presently the word got out. It
was "War." The news passed from mouth to mouth and grew in
portentousness. War! Nations were at war! These men had escaped from a
German warship!

It was unbelievable. It was stunning. Presently Caradoc shouted out in
the darkness for Malone, Mate Malone. The cockney answered.

"Put your firemen at the furnace! Set your engineers to work on the
engines. We must have steam up and be away in an hour!"

The two crews fell into silence, and Malone ordered his men below. Some
of the dock's crew hurried off with the others to cut down coal in the
bunkers. Another gang fell to work; pulling in the sea anchor. But over
all their various activities hovered the vast consternation of war.

Caradoc had climbed to the bridge of the _Vulcan_ and stood staring
silently at the bulk of the mother ship that was barely discernible
through the night. The searchlight had been switched off. Neither ship
showed a signal. From below came the muffled sounds of men working at
the furnace, and in five or ten minutes a film of smoke trickled out of
the _Vulcan's_ great funnel.

Madden climbed up on the bridge beside Caradoc.

"How long before the submarine will be out?" he asked in a low tone.

"Small boats will come first," replied Smith. "That's why they shunted
off the searchlight--to surprise us."

"Will they try to board us?"

"Certainly. We'll have to defend ourselves with anything we can pick up,
sticks, knives, hand spikes--"

At that moment Malone appeared from the other end of the bridge.

"We'll have steam up in an hour," he announced, glancing up at the
funnel.

"An hour?" thought Madden. "That's time enough for us all to be killed."

Caradoc said to the mate: "Go forward and tell the men to arm
themselves, then take position along the rail to repel boarders. Tell
them to look sharp for grappling hooks and throw them down."

"And what will they arm with, sir?"

"Use anything you can find, hand spikes, knives, sticks. They might
throw lumps of coal. A cricket player ought to give a good account with
a lump of coal."

"Very well, sir," grunted Malone and he hurried down on deck.

A few minutes later the men were scurrying around to their positions.
One or two men had gone down for a sack of coal, a queer ammunition that
might possibly effect something. On the other hand, Leonard knew the
attacking force would come armed with mausers, rapid fire guns,
grappling hooks, swords. A onesided fight was brewing.

The American looked anxiously at the funnel; a ribbon of black smoke
filtered out into the air.

"Madden," said Caradoc, "they will make the hardest fight around the
anchor ports and amidships. Which position do you prefer to defend?"

"I believe I'll take the forecastle."

"Good, I wish you luck."

"Same to you."

As Madden moved down the ladder to the deck, he heard, above the murmur
of the busy men, the strong measured beat of a ship's cutter approaching
the tug with deliberate swiftness.

There were some good men stationed to defend the forecastle, Hogan,
Mulcher, Greer and two or three of the _Vulcan's_ former crew whom
Madden did not know. As the American approached in the gloom, two men
came up, laden with sacks, and poured out a pile of coal on deck. Every
lump was about the size of a baseball.

Hogan recognized Madden in the darkness. He was exuberant now that he
had learned his enemies were human beings and not ghouls.

"Do ye think those Dutchmen will be able to put up a daycent foight,
Misther Madden?" he inquired hopefully.

"They have plenty of arms, Hogan."

"Sure, that'll hilp 'em some. But Oi'm going to knock th' head off the
spalpeen that firrust sticks his mug over that rail."

"Your chance is coming," said Madden soberly, as he listened to the
increasing noise of the oars.

"Now, men," directed the American, "lie flat down behind the rail and
use your sticks and hand pikes to prize off grapnels. They will shoot
your hands."

"Very well, sor," breathed several voices.

The noise of the oars grew louder until it sounded immediately beneath
the defenders. Hogan stood up suddenly, leaned over the rail with a lump
of coal in each hand, and threw down viciously. There was a whack as one
lump hit the boat, and a grunt as the other struck some man. In return
came a terrific crash of rifles, and bullets spattered the iron plates
of the _Vulcan_. Fortunately Hogan had flopped down on deck in
time.

At that instant, the searchlight of the mother ship swept the
_Vulcan's_ deck with startling brilliance. The first volley had
perhaps been the signal, and the fight was on.

There came a clanging of grapnels on the rail over the crouching
defenders. Madden flung down the one nearest him, but others came flying
through the air to take its place. The prostrate men worked busily
dislodging the flukes. The fusillade from below prevented their getting
on their knees, and they were forced to lie on their backs as they
worked at the hooks. It seemed some sort of queer game: the attackers
flinging up scaling irons, the defenders flipping them down. Madden had
dislodged two or three, when Mulcher cried out for help.

The enemy had succeeded in catching a fluke on the rail, and putting so
much weight on it that the cockney could not prize it off. Immediately
Hogan and another defender crawled to Mulcher's aid like big lizards.
They thrust in sticks and spikes and prized vigorously, while the
bullets were drumming on the plates outside.

It stuck and Leonard started to their aid, when a hook in his own
territory demanded his attention. Just then a head came up over the rail
just above Hogan and Mulcher. The German had turned his automatic on the
defenders when Hogan's shillalah caught him on the temple. He reeled
backwards, his pistol spitting into the air. He knocked down the whole
line of men below him amid crashings, shoutings and splashings in the
water below. The moment the weight was off, Mulcher loosed the grapnel
and flung it down into the confusion.

The hail of bullets was immediately renewed, and more hooks came flying
over. The iron rails rang like a boiler shop, and the steel missiles
glanced off whining like enormous mosquitoes. Madden whirled his head
for a glance aft.

The same sort of drama was taking place amidship, boarders were climbing
over the rail and arms, sticks, and iron spikes snapped out of the inky
shadows and smote them. The invaders fired blindly into the darkness
that rimmed the deck. As to whether they were killing or maiming
Caradoc's crew, Madden could not tell.

One thing, however, he did observe, that aroused an anxious hope in the
boy's heart. A heavy column of smoke ascended from the tug's funnel, and
a tongue of steam played in its edge.

A frenzy of impatience seized Madden. If the _Vulcan_ could only
get under way and escape the fight! Why didn't they start at once! In
the vivid light, he saw the steering wheel turning, apparently of its
own accord, and he knew that someone was manipulating the hand grips
from the bottom side.

From those slight signs of preparation, Madden's attention was suddenly
whipped back to his business, by the sight of two figures climbing on
over the prow of the _Vulcan_. These men had no doubt caught a hook
in the anchor port and had climbed up without opposition.

The invaders stood clearly limned by the searchlight, trying to pick out
a target for their fire, when Madden reached for the coal pile. The
American had once been pitcher for his college team, and the lump of
coal crashed under the first man's jaw and he dropped backwards as if
hit by a piece of shrapnel. The second gunman banged at the shadow where
Madden was hid. The bullets sang about the American's ears, when
Deschaillon's ostrich-like kick flashed through the light and caught the
sailor in the pit of the stomach. The automatic dropped from his hand,
and he crimped up like a stuck grubworm.

But while the defenders were occupied with this little flank attack,
half a dozen hooks were firmly lodged on the rail, and at least eight
men were mounting swiftly. At their head came an officer waving a sword.
The firing from below suddenly ceased, lest they hit their own men. In
the silence that followed, Madden heard the hiss of rising steam, and
from somewhere the tinkle of a bell.

Suddenly out of the shadows, the whole force of the defenders leaped at
the Germans and attacked them as they strode over the rail. There was a
clattering of revolvers, a thwacking of sticks and iron pins, and the
smashing of thrown coal.

Then the combatants grappled hand to hand on the rail of the tug,
swinging eerily in and out like wrestlers, a strange sight in the
beating searchlight.

Madden closed with the officer, and by good fortune caught his right
wrist, so the fellow could not shorten his sword and stab him. The
American kept trying to twist the German's arm and make him drop his
blade, but the fellow had thrust his left hand under Madden's arm pit
and reached up and caught him about the forehead. The result was a back
half nelson, and put Madden's neck under a terrific strain.

In return he choked his adversary, but Madden's mastoid muscles slowly
gave way before the German's punishing hold. His head bent back, while
he clung desperately to the sword hand and crushed in the fellow's
gullet. There was a roaring in Madden's ears that was not from the
fighting men. His neck and back slowly curved backward under the strain.
Had it not been for the menace of the sword, he could have wriggled out
with a wrestler's shift, but if he loosed the right hand... Madden
wondered if he could fall backwards and still maintain his hold on the
sword. If he could ever get down without being stunned by his fall, his
strangle hold would give him an immediate advantage. He swung backwards,
but the fellow did not go with him, but began a furious struggle to
loose his weapon. Madden clung grimly. His whole body dripped with
sweat, as he held away the sword and tried to choke the fat neck of his
antagonist. He shoved the fellow's throat with all his power, trying to
break the nelson, but the pressure jammed his own head back till a hot
pain streaked through the base of his skull.

At that moment a tremor ran through the tug, and there came a
chough-choughing in her stack. Immediately followed a great shouting and
a frantic pelting of grapnels from the sea below. Madden knew that the
_Vulcan_ had at last got under steam, and would probably escape.
This came to him dimly as his left hand, which had been struggling to
fend off the sword, gradually lost its grip on the German's sweaty
slippery wrist.

Along up and down the rail, he knew that the men battled with varying
results. Came dimly to his roaring ears shouts, groans and blows. In
another minute the sword would split his ribs.

A breeze sprang up. The _Vulcan_ was gathering headway.

He was bracing his last efforts against the force that was bending him
double, when a long-legged figure rushed from amidship, seized the
swordsman around the waist, and with a mighty heave, flung the fellow
upward and outward into the sea, falling end over end--a grotesque
gyrating figure in the searchlight, still waving his sword.

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