UNDER THE WHITEENSIGN
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CHAPTER I
Laddie's Warning
"WHAT a rotten night!"
With this well-expressed remark Sub-lieutenant Webb gained the headof the bridge-ladder of H.M. armed merchant-cruiser _PortchesterCastle_.
Contrasted with the brightness of his comfortable cabin the blacknessof the night seemed impenetrable. The horned moon, already well downin the western sky, was almost hidden by a rapidly drifting patch ofmottled clouds of sufficient density to obscure its pale rays.Slapping viciously against the ship's starboard side were the surgingrollers of the Bay of Biscay. With a succession of heavy thuds thewaves broke against the vessel's hull, recoiling in masses ofphosphorescent foam and at the same time sending clouds of spindriftflying across the lofty bridge. The _Portchester Castle_ wasforty-eight hours out from England, bound for patrol duties in theEastern Mediterranean. It was by no means her first trip to thatinland sea. In pre-war days, under a different name, she had beenmaking regular pleasure trips under the auspices of a touring agency.It had been said that her skipper could find his way practicallyblindfold into any of the better-known Mediterranean ports, so longhad he been on this particular service.
But the outbreak of the Great War had changed all that. Taken over bythe Admiralty, the former liner-yacht had been rapidly andefficaciously adapted to her new rôle. Her palatial cabin fittingshad been ruthlessly scrapped. The dazzling white enamel had beenhidden under a coat of neutral grey. Her bluff funnels were disguisedwith "wash" of the same dingy hue. Light armour protected her vitalparts; quick-firing guns of hard-hitting power were mounted on thedecks that previously had been given over to pleasure-seekingtourists. In short, the _Portchester Castle_ was now a swift andformidable unit of the British Navy.
Four years had made a marked difference in the appearance of TomWebb, formerly Tenderfoot of the Sea Scouts' yacht _Petrel_. Thanksto his preliminary training in the rudiments of seamanship andnavigation acquired in the little ketch yacht, Webb had had nodifficulty in being accepted for service in the trawler patrol soonafter the outbreak of hostilities.
It was now that his Sea Scout training bore fruit. Self-reliant, andwilling to undertake the most arduous tasks with the utmost goodhumour and alacrity, he quickly gained the goodwill of his superiors.
Two years in the North Sea in the trawler _Zealous_ gave him plentyof experience and adventure, until the trawler came to an untimelyend in an encounter with some German torpedo-boats, but not beforeshe had sent one of them to the bottom. The outcome of this little"scrap", as far as Tom Webb was concerned, was that the ex-Tenderfootwas given a commission as Acting Sub-lieutenant, R.N.R., andappointed to the armed merchant-cruiser _Portchester Castle_.
It required a fair effort on Webb's part to carry out one portion ofthe Scout's creed and "keep smiling" as he mounted the bridge in thisparticular middle watch. Turning out of a comfortable bunk to do dutyin an exposed, spray-swept post was not a matter of choice but ofobligation.
Still dazed by the sudden transition from the electric light 'tweendecks to the intense blackness of the night, Webb could just discernthe figure of the Sub he was about to relieve.
"Mornin', Haynes!"
"Wish you well of it, my festive," was Dick Haynes's rejoinder."Nothing to report. Here's the course. You ought to sight the Spanishcoast in an hour or so. Well, so long, and good luck!"
The relieved Sub-lieutenant vanished down the bridge-ladder. Webb,muffled in his greatcoat, satisfied himself that the quartermasterswere acquainted with the correct compass course, and received theusual report: "Screened light's burning, sir, and all's well."
This done he took up his position on the lee side of the bridge and,sheltered by the storm-dodger, gazed fixedly in the direction of theswelter of black water ahead of the labouring ship.
Slowly the minutes sped. The _Portchester Castle_, steaming atseventeen knots, rolled and plunged through the long waves without somuch as the distant navigation lights of another vessel to break themonotony of the night. Yet the utmost vigilance was necessary. Thesafety of the ship depended upon the sharp eyes of the two look-outmen on the fo'c'sle, and the alertness of the junior watch-keeper onthe bridge. To the ordinary risk of collision was added anotherdanger, for hostile submarines had been reported making for theMediterranean, and were reasonably expected to take a very similarcourse to that followed by the British armed merchant-cruiser.
The "Rules of the Road for Preventing Collision at Sea" reduced theformer danger to a minimum, provided an efficient watch weremaintained; against the mad dogs of the sea--the German submarines,who never hesitated to torpedo at sight anything afloat regardless ofher nationality--the ship had to take her chances, and trust toProvidence and a quick use of the helm to avoid the deadly torpedo,should the phosphorescent swell in the wake of the weapon betray itsapproach.
A faint click, barely perceptible above the howling of the wind andthe swish of the waves, attracted Webb's attention. The officer ofthe watch had switched off the light in the chart-house beforeemerging, lest a stray beam should betray the vessel to a lurkingfoe.
Presently the door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared,his outlines just discernible in the faint light; for the moon, nowsoon on the point of setting, was momentarily unobscured.
"Hallo, Tom!" he exclaimed. "What do you think of the Bay, eh?"
The speaker was Lieutenant Jack Osborne, R.N.R., for the time beingofficer of the watch. He, too, had good reason to be thankful for hisearly training as a Sea Scout on the yacht _Petrel_. The outbreak ofwar found him at Shanghai--a Third Officer on one of the liners ofthe Royal British and Pacific Steamship Company's fleet. Within twohours of the receipt of the mobilization telegram, Osborne was onboard a vessel bound for Vancouver, _en route_ for home by theCanadian Pacific. Twelve months' sea service procured him hispromotion as lieutenant, R.N.R., and when the _Portchester Castle_was commissioned he found that one of his brother officers was hisformer Sea Scout chum, Tom Webb.
"An improvement on the North Sea in winter," replied Webboptimistically. "And it will be a jolly sight warmer when we get tothe Mediterranean."
"You haven't been abroad before?" asked Osborne.
"Strictly speaking--no," replied the Sub. "I've been within sight ofIceland a few times, and don't want to see it again; but I have neverset foot ashore. You remember---- Hallo! What's that?"
He gave an involuntary start as something gripped his left hand witha gentle yet firm hold.
Osborne smiled.
"You're a bit jumpy," he said. "Come, this won't do; it's onlyLaddie. He's always with me on the bridge, you know."
"Hope he hasn't mistaken my hand for a piece of raw beef-steak,"remarked Webb, disengaging his hand from the jaws of a large dog."I'm not afraid of dogs, you know, Osborne, but for the moment Iwondered what was up."
"Only his way of showing friendliness," explained the Lieutenant."I've had him on board ever since he was a pup. He's only fourteenmonths old now."
"I haven't seen him before."
"No, I kept him ashore while we were commissioning, and he generallykeeps down below for the first twenty-four hours at sea. He'll be apal to you, Webb; almost as much as Cinders. Well, I'll leave himwith you. Stop there, Laddie, there's a good dog. Call me directlyyou sight Cape Villano light, Webb. Keep it well on the port bow;we're off a tricky coast, you know."
Left alone the Sub stooped and patted the silky hair of thesheep-dog's head. Webb was one of those fellows to whom most dogstake at sight. This animal was no exception to the general rule.
Laddie was a large bob-tailed sheep-dog standing more than two feetfrom the ground--or rather, deck--and powerfully built. Even in thedim light Webb noticed one peculiarity. The animal's eyes were of aturquoise-blue colour and gleamed in the dark like those of a cat.
Suddenly the animal bounded to the weather side of the bridge and,placing his front paws on the guard-rail, gave vent to three deep,angry barks.
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"What's the matter, old boy?" asked Webb, peering in vain toascertain the cause of the dog's excitability.
Hearing his pet's warning bark Lieutenant Osborne was on the bridgein a trice. One glance at Laddie was sufficient.
"Action stations!" he roared in stentorian tones; then, "Hard-a-port,quartermaster!"
Even as the spokes of the steam steering-gear revolved rapidly underthe helmsman's hands, the guns' crews, who had been fitfully dozingbeside their weapons, manned the quick-firers, while thesearch-lights with their carbons sizzling were trained outboard,ready at the word of command to unscreen and throw their dazzlingrays upon the surface of the waves.
Listing heavily to port as she turned rapidly on her helm, the_Portchester Castle_ just missed by a few yards an ever-divergingdouble track of foam that contrasted vividly with the inky blacknessof the water.
By a few seconds the British vessel had escaped destruction from atorpedo fired from a lurking hostile submarine.