The Cruise of the Dry Dock/Caradoc Takes Command
CHAPTER XVI
CARADOC TAKES COMMAND
Notwithstanding that Madden's head was under the hood, Caradoc sensed the fact that his friend had experienced some profound shock.
"What's the matter? What's wrong?" he whispered from the outside.
"The mate—the mate of the Vulcan is in there!" gasped the American.
"Impossible!" Smith dived under the hood for himself.
Both heads just managed to squeeze in and the two men stared at Malone as if he were raised from the grave. The mate, however, was not funereal. He seemed in the pink of condition, rather fatter than he had been on the dock, and he wore the pleased expression of a man well content with life.
As men will do when under a fixed stare, he presently glanced about and his eyes fell on the porthole. He looked at the dim port for several seconds intently, as if he could not quite make out their faces. Madden frowned, jerked his head up and down in a signal for Malone to approach.
The mate's little eyes went round at the request. He made a surprised gesture to his partner, scrambled to his feet and drew near. The whole cabin followed his motions.
“W'ot is it?” he whispered, still peering into the half-faces seen in the round hole.
“Madden and Smith.”
“W'ot!”
“Yes.”
“Great sharks! W'ot you lads doin' 'ere?”
“Came off the tug—what is this?”
“W'ot is w'ot?”
“This ship we're on?”
It seemed as if Malone's little eyes would pop out of his head.
“W'ot—didn't they ketch you? You don't mean to say you—you jest straggled aboard?”
“Sure we did. Catch us? Who is there to catch us?”
Malone stared as if at two ghosts. “Say! Say!” he said hoarsely. “You don't mean to say you ain't caught? You don't mean you run th' tug up 'ere an' boarded us! You don't mean——” He turned and whispered hoarsely inside: “It's th' lads off th' dock, though 'ow they got 'ere, an' w'ot they're—douse th' light, some o' you fellows.”
A stifled consternation seized the card players, who crowded up to the port. A moment later all the lights were snapped out one after another.
“Tell us who there was to catch us,” begged Leonard in a whisper.
“Who? W'y a German warship, that's who! One caught us—an' Cap Cleghorne. Caught th' Cap away hup on th' Newfoundland Banks. Caught us first day——”
“Why should a German warship capture us!” demanded Leonard in a voice that threatened to rise in excitement.
“Quiet! Quiet! 'Eavens, lad! Don't you know? Ain't you 'eard? W'y it's war! War! War's broke out all over th' world! Everyw'ere! Ever'body!”
“War!” gasped Madden.
“War! What countries?” demanded Smith in an excited whisper.
“Hall countries! Hingland, France, Rooshia, Japan, that's one side, an' Germany and Austria on th' other.”
“America in it?” demanded Madden.
“Right enough. Canada is sendin' troops and——”
“America! America! The United States of America!”
“Oh, no, she's the only nootral in th' whole world among th' big powers! But she'll be in soon enough!”
“What's this we're on?” inquired Caradoc. “It isn't a warship?”
“Kind o' warship. It's a mother ship for submarines—sort of floatin' dry dock for the little sneakers. She takes 'em aboard, over'auls 'em, gives 'em new stores and torpedoes.”
“England at war!” repeated Caradoc in a maze. “I must get out of here!”
“That's th' word, war!” whispered Malone thickly. “They say Hingland's got a tight blockade aroun' th' German ports, so th' German cruisers bring their prizes here in th' Sargasso, load all the prize stores they capture out o' Hinglish bottoms into submarines an' run it into Germany under th' blockade. See? That's w'y this mother ship is 'ere. She fixes 'em up at this end for their run back.”
Malone told all this in a hoarse breath.
“What do they do with their prisoners—keep them here?”
“No, ship 'em to German East Africa an' intern 'em. The Prince Eitel is due 'ere tomorrow to ship us.”
So that was the explanation of all this mystery—War!
Madden fell silent with the sensation of a man who had lost his footing on earth. All his life he had been accustomed to peace. He thought of wars as small affairs that broke out now and then in South America or when the American Indians got hold of whiskey. But for Germany, France, England to fight, to hurl millions of men at each other! It was inconceivable!
The boy's brain felt numb as if crushed beneath an enormous horror. The world was at war!
Unless a person actually witness a murder, he cannot imagine the shock and dreadfulness of seeing one man shot down, writhe, gasp, grow pale and cease struggling. To picture ten men murdered simply stuns the mind. An effort to realize hundreds, thousands, millions of men mangled, wounded, bayoneted, crushed, blown to atoms by shells and mine—all this becomes vague, formless, a dim, dreadful picture that is as unreal as a dream, or history.
“What caused it?” asked Madden in a strained tone.
“I don't know,” whispered the mate huskily. “They say it all started because an anarchist killed an Austrian prince, but I don't believe it—that sounds too onreasonable for me.”
“What has an Austrian prince to do with the rest of the nations?”
“I told you I don't believe it!” repeated the mate.
Madden felt impotent at the conclusion of the narrative. As long as he had conceived himself to be attacking a force of pirates and thieves, he was ready to board this great vessel, hunt for an engineer, or attempt any desperate scheme. But now when he learned that men were being murdered, goods stolen, ships scuttled, in accordance with a kind of wild law, called rules of war, he no longer knew what to do. The world was mad. Its people were murdering each other.
He finally said aloud to Caradoc: “I suppose we may as well hunt up the commanding officer, surrender ourselves and sail for Africa with the others.”
“No,” interrupted Smith, “don't do that.” Then he called softly inside, “Malone!”
“Well, w'ot is it?” inquired the mate gruffly, for he persevered in his dislike of Smith.
“Look sharp, Malone! I am an officer in the English navy—it is my right and duty to assume command of all English seamen in case of war!”
A blank silence followed this remarkable assumption of authority. The tone in which it was whispered prevented any doubts in the minds of his hearers.
“Do you understand?” inquired Caradoc in a sharp undertone.
“Yes, sir,” replied the mate doggedly.
“How many men have you in there?”
“Eleven Hinglishmen, sir.”
“I assume responsibility for those men. From now on accept orders from me!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pass the word around. I am going to hand in some German uniforms through this port. Let every man put on a uniform!”
“Very well, sir!” came the dismayed reply.
Caradoc withdrew his head from the hood. In the faint gleam from the outside incandescents, he fell to untying the strings by which the suits were leashed to the lines. He handed eleven suits to Madden, who passed them under the hood and Malone received them inside. Then Smith deliberately stripped off his own clothes and drew on a pair of German trousers.
“Get on a pair, Madden,” he advised. “Civilian trousers will be conspicuous in a bright light. You are going to see this thing through, aren't you?”
Madden nodded and followed his companion's example. Five minutes later the two, transformed into German sailors, walked out of the hanging laundry.
“Don't seem, to observe anything,” whispered Caradoc. “Appear to be going somewhere, on an errand. Walk just as if you belonged aboard.”
A moment later the Briton turned down a stairway that led to a shadowy deck, which was hung with long rows of hammocks with men sleeping in them. The air down here was remarkably cool, although Madden did not have time to give much thought to this. Caradoc pursued his way unhesitatingly among the sleeping sailors, and presently came to another hatchway, out of which poured the rumble of machinery and a stream of light.
Down this flight of steps, Smith moved with certainty, and a moment later Madden saw they were entering a great machine shop. A full complement of men worked at every lathe, table, drill or saw. The clang of hammers, the guttering of drills, the whine of steel planes smote his ears in a cheerful din of labor. The laborers worked at their tasks with that peculiar flexibility of forearms, wrists, fingers that mark skilled machinists. The scent of lubricating oil the faint tang of metal dust filled the air. Strange to say, the air down here was even cooler than that in the sleeping deck above.
All sorts of queer tasks were progressing. Here, men were working on gyroscopes that fitted into the shells of torpedoes; there, they fabricated little hot-air engines which propelled those instruments of destruction. They were repairing gauges, steam connections, electrical fittings, what not.
Madden was tempted to pause and stare about this wondershop, when it occurred to him that if he and Caradoc were discovered they would be executed as spies. He had not thought of this before, and the mere suggestion somehow made him feel stiff and wooden. He was not frightened, but he felt clumsy, as a schoolboy does when he makes his first public speech. His arms and legs felt wooden; his head did not seem to sit in a natural manner on his neck. He felt that if anyone glanced at him, he would immediately betray himself. His walk, his looks showed it. He could not imagine why some workman did not leap out, seize his arm and yell “Spy!”
After a long stage-frightened walk, Caradoc turned down another flight of stairs. Here Madden discovered the secret of the cool air. On this deck was a big refrigerating plant, with frost-covered pipes leading in all directions. The sight of this plant gave Madden some faint insight into the thorough preparation made by the German government to carry on their struggle by sea. Long before war was declared, Germany must have planned a naval base in the Sargasso, and have foreseen the use of her submarines in evading the blockade. She had chosen these untraveled seas as a depot, then established a refrigerated machine shop in order that the full-blooded German might work comfortably in the tropics. The plan seemed to have been worked out with infinite detail.
From the refrigeration deck, they descended to still another deck into the very bowels of the ship. This descent brought them to a long gallery that was formed by a bulkhead running down the center of the ship. As they entered this passage, three workmen came out of a small steel door that opened into this central wall. One of the workmen carefully rebolted the door, yawned sleepily and followed his comrades toward the companionway. As he passed he grunted something to Caradoc. Madden's heart beat faster lest they should be discovered at this last hour. He had no idea what mission moved the Englishman, but he sensed that here was his destination. Smith made some reply in German, moved briskly ahead until he came to the small steel door. He laid his hand familiarly upon the bolts, shot them back, swung open the door. One of the men whirled about and stared back at this assured intruder. Smith stood aside and with a curt military gesture motioned Madden to enter. The American drew an uncertain breath, glanced at the three Germans out of the tail of his eye and stepped into the dark square. Caradoc followed him. The laborers went on updeck apparently satisfied.
An electric wire was let in through the door. Caradoc reached for it, followed it with his hand and presently turned a switch. Next moment a bright flood of light bathed the tubular chamber in which they stood.
Madden glanced about. He stood in a room whose roof formed a half circle over his head. The place seemed as full of machinery as a watch case. Fore and aft were circular partitions of steel, like drumheads. These were penetrated with sliding shutters, which stood open. Through the after shutter, Madden saw a large Deisel oil engine, flanked by a compact heavy dynamo. Looking forward, he could see steel cylinders trimmed in shining brass, and a maze of levers, gauges, dials, valves.
The central compartment in which the two stood was dominated by a little spiral stairway leading up into a steel dome. On a shelf set in the bulkhead was a chart, a telephone receiver, speaking tubes, dials with red and black hands, an array of electrometers, pressure gauges.
Glancing up the stairway into the little dome, Madden saw a pilot wheel, more levers and speaking tubes and telephone receivers, and a square of ground glass, that was lined off with delicate cross-lines.
“Where are we?” asked Madden, amazed. “What do they do here? I never saw so much machinery before in so small a space.”
Caradoc was stooping over a heavy metal box down at the floor level at the side of the desk. It was one of a series of such boxes.
“We're inside of that submarine you saw enter a few hours ago,” explained the Englishman shortly.
Leonard stared around with new eyes. “So this is a submarine! Do you know anything about them? What's that spirit level for?” He pointed at a horizontal gauge.
“Measures air pressure—it's not a level.”
“What's in these steel tanks overhead?”
“Compressed air.”
“What's that you are getting into?” Here Caradoc lifted the lid, and Madden got a view. “Say, that's a torpedo, isn't it?” he asked quickly as he saw a long needle-pointed steel cigar with propeller and rudder on the aft end.
The Englishman made no reply. He leaned over and selected a small steel crowbar from a tool locker, drew it out with a quick nervous movement.
“Say!” cried Madden catching the strange expression on the face of his friend, “are you going to try to launch this and escape on it—escape on a torpedo?”
A mirthless smile flickered over the Englishman's gray face. “Nothing so fanciful.”
A sixteen foot torpedo lay in a steel frame on a runway, just ready to slide forward into the big expulsion tube that was the salient feature of the forward compartment. Caradoc walked quickly to the nose of the terrific missile. He looked at his friend and said in a strange voice: “Madden, I'm going to wipe this German ship-trap off the map!”
A sort of spasm clutched the American's diaphragm. “You don't mean——” he managed to gasp.
“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!