CHAPTER VIII

Left Behind

Seven days behind scheduled time the _Awarua_ crawled into Port Stanley harbour. Here Sergeant Malcolm Carr and Rifleman Macready were received in exchange for Panjie, who, thanks to the store of fodder on board the transport, had been fed into a state of adiposity.

Meanwhile a reserve transport had been sent across from Simon's Bay, and orders were given to tranship the troops, stores, and baggage from No. 99 to No. 109. Within three days the task was accomplished, and, five other troopships having arrived from Australia, the convoy left for Table Bay, still under the care of H.M.S. _Gosport_.

Although the transports were still a considerable distance from the U-boat danger zone, every revolution of their propellers was bringing them nearer to that part of the South Atlantic where vessels had been known-to have been destroyed by mines.

On the evening of the third day Malcolm had to accompany Lieutenant Nicholson on the rounds. After visiting the various mess decks the upper deck had to be inspected. It was a pitch-dark night. The stars were obscured. Beyond the long undulations the sea was calm.

Transport 109, otherwise the S.S. _Pintail_, was leading vessel of the starboard column, the formation being that known as "double column ahead". The _Gosport_ was two miles distant on the starboard bow, her position indicated solely by a feeble stern lantern. The vessels forming the convoy were steaming with all navigation-lamps screened, keeping station merely by means of the phosphorescent wake of the vessel next ahead.

"Hallo, what's the move?" exclaimed Mr. Nicholson as the six transports altered helm, swung round until they formed double column line abreast. "We're at right angles to our former course. What's the _Gosport_ doing?"

The Lieutenant walked to the rail. Malcolm and the rest of the party halted and watched a masthead signalling-lamp that was blinking rapidly on the cruiser.

Suddenly the beams of two powerful search-lights from the _Gosport's_ bridge pierced the darkness. The giant rays were directed full upon the hull of a large vessel steaming about five cable-lengths from, and on a parallel course to, that of the cruiser.

The stranger had been showing no steaminglights. She was a two-masted, double-funnelled craft of about four thousand tons. On her side, clearly shown up in the rays of the search-light, were painted the Dutch national colours, and the words _Waeszyl_, Holland in letters six feet in height.

Again the _Gosport's_ flashing-lamp began signalling; but while the message, whatever it might mean, was still in progress, two tongues of flame leapt from the cruiser's side, and the simultaneous roar of a double report crashed through the night.

An instant later a stupendous blaze of light, followed by a detonation the volume of which completely drowned all other sounds, dazzled the eyes and burst upon the ears of the spectators. A pall of black smoke, tinted silvery in the rays of the search-lights, marked the spot where the so-called _Waeszyl_ had been. For some seconds objects of varying sizes, hurled high in the air, dropped into the sea, some of them in perilous proximity to the convoy. After that--silence.

From the troop-decks of the transports crowds of men poured through the hatchways. It was an impossible task to try to keep the New Zealanders below. They simply had to see what there was to be seen; which, according to the general verdict, was precious little.

Presently boats were lowered from the cruiser, and a search was made over and around the spot where the mysterious vessel had disappeared. In less than half an hour the boats returned, the searchlights were switched off, and the cruiser and her charges resumed their interrupted course.

There was very little sleep that night for the men of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcements. The men sat up discussing the appalling incident, and forming ingenious theories as to the cause of the _Gosport's_ speedy destruction of the supposed Dutchman. They had reckoned on entering the danger zone when they came within the normal radius of action of hostile U-boats. Already they had practical proof that at almost every knot of the twelve-thousand-miles voyage they were open to attack--Providence and the armed unit of Britain's fleet permitting.

Just before noon on the following day the _Pintail_ passed close to a water-logged ship's boat. Kept under observation by means of telescopes and binoculars, the derelict told its own tale. There were evidences that it had been hastily lowered. A gaping hole on one side and a shattered gun-wale on the other, together with traces of fire, showed that the boat had been shelled. There were distinct signs that the perpetrators of the outrage had sought to obliterate all traces of their dastardly work: the name of the ship had been scraped off the boat's bows, her air-tight tanks had been stove in, yet in spite of this precaution the boat still remained awash. For once, at least, the policy of _Spurlos versenkt_ had failed. Cold-blooded murder had undoubtedly been committed on the high seas. The _Gosport_ was not in time to prevent this particular crime--but she had avenged it.

Slowly, but no less surely, the details of the previous night's engagement leaked out. It had not been, as Malcolm had surmised, a one-sided engagement. A commerce-raider and mine-layer disguised as a Dutch cargo boat had sighted the _Gosport_, and, mistaking her in the darkness for a merchantman, turned and shaped a parallel course to that of the cruiser.

Detected by the war-ship's look-out, the suspicious vessel was promptly challenged by flashing signals. The raider's reply was a grim one. A torpedo fired from a submerged tube tore towards the _Gosport_, passing within a few feet of her stern. The phosphorescent swirl of the under-water missile told its own tale. The cruiser put two shells into the raider's quarter, in the hope that her steering-gear would be blown away and the vessel rendered unmanageable. Unfortunately for Hans, one of the projectiles burst in a compartment where a number of mines were stored--result, utter and swift annihilation!

As the transport approached the Cape, justifiable anxiety consumed those responsible for the navigation of the convoy. The _Pintail's_ skipper never left the bridge for thirty-six hours. Two merchant-men had recently been sunk by mines in these waters. Although the vessel that had laid these sinister instruments of death and destruction had been destroyed, the results of her previous activities remained.

At last the convoy dropped anchor in Table Bay. The second stage of the long sea voyage was accomplished. The _Gosport_ coaled and left for the Pacific, Until it was definitely established that German raiders no longer infested the route between Wellington and the Horn the presence of a few light cruisers was necessary, otherwise armed merchant-cruisers could effectually perform convoying duties, and release the "pukka" warships for other duties in home waters.

"Now I think of it," remarked Dick Selwyn, "I have a second cousin living at Muizenberg; I'll look him up. There's leave till six o'clock. Coming?"

"Looking up" even distant relations is a characteristic of the New Zealander. Wounded Anzacs, on receiving the ten-days' leave in England before rejoining their units, frequently make railway journeys running into hundreds of miles simply for the Purpose of "looking up" a remote blood relation in the Old Country, In Selwyn's case his relation lived at a small town on the shores of False Bay, a distance of about twenty miles from Cape Town.

"I'm on," replied Malcolm. "It will give us a chance of seeing something of South Africa. How about Fortescue?"

Sergeant Fortescue, when appealed to, promptly decided to accompany them; and as soon as leave was granted the three non-coms. hurried ashore.

The railway journey accomplished, Selwyn made the disappointing discovery that his cousin no longer lived at Muizenberg. He had moved to a farm near Slang Kop, a distance of about five miles across the peninsula that terminates in the world-renowned Cape of Good Hope.

"Game to foot it, you chaps?" asked Selwyn. "I don't like to be done."

The others agreed without enthusiasm, although loyalty to their chum left no plausible alternative; so at a steady pace they set out along an upland track that led to the farm.

Selwyn's cousin "did his visitors right down properly", to quote Malcolm's description of the reception. So much so that before either of the three realized the fact it was a question of whether they could return to Muizenberg station in time for the train. A springless Cape cart drove them at the maximum pace obtainable by the wiry horse and the vociferous exhortations of the native "boy". In spite of every effort the trio reached the outskirts of Muizenberg just in time to see the train steam out of the station.

Since Muizenberg is a popular seaside resort for the business folk at Cape Town, there is a fairly frequent train service. Enquiries of the railway officials elicited the information that a train would leave at 7.15 p.m.

Malcolm and his companions accepted the situation calmly. Mutual recriminations were absent, although they knew that it was a serious matter to overstay shore leave.

"It isn't as if the transport were lying alongside a wharf," remarked Selwyn. "Our best chance is to hire a boat and trust to luck to get on board without being observed by the officers. The corporal on the gangway wouldn't give the show away."

"The main point is to get on board," said Fortescue. "If there is an enquiry we must simply state plain facts and face the music. There's an officer's boat at nine-thirty."

"I'm afraid there isn't," corrected Malcolm. "I saw the announcement cancelled on the notice-board outside the orderly room."

"By gum, that looks fishy!" exclaimed Fortescue. "Supposing the _Pintail_ sails to-night. That yarn about the convoy getting under way on Thursday night may be a blind. They say Cape Town swarms with pro-Germans."

When at length the train crawled out of Muizenberg station the three "Diggers" (as New Zealand infantrymen are commonly dubbed amongst themselves) had for company a sympathetic fellow-passenger, who on hearing of their plight was quick to suggest a plan.

"I know your boat," he remarked. "No. 109 is lying nearest in-shore off Woodstock--that's a suburb of Cape Town, you know. I'm a transport officer, so I know a bit about it. Hop off the train at Woodstock and enquire for Van Hoek's boathouse. It's at the mouth of Salt River. Old Van will row you off for a matter of ten shillings."

The passenger seemed of a very communicative disposition. He evinced considerable interest in various incidents of the New Zealanders' voyage. Without much questioning he led the three Anzacs to give a fairly detailed account of what had happened.

"It's all news to me," he remarked. "Even in the Transport Office we hear but very little. Of course the heads know a lot, but the minor officials, such as myself, are not taken into their confidence."

The train slowing down as it approached Woodstock station terminated the conversation. With many thanks for the information, Malcolm and his chums left the carriage, and, in giving up their tickets, enquired of the Dutch ticket-collector the way to Van Hoek's establishment.

The official had never heard of the place; nor had three or four others to whom the enquiry was put.

"At any rate," said Fortescue in desperation, "I suppose there is such a show as Salt River?"

"Oh yes, we know where that is," was the chorused reply.

Declining offers to be shown the way, the three chums set out, and presently arrived at the low shore of the estuary. The opposite bank was invisible, as at the spot the mud-flats were covered at high tide. To all appearance it was open water right out to Table Bay.

The shore was deserted. The few buildings were evidently untenanted. On the beach half a dozen boats were hauled up above high-water mark. Farther out were others riding easily to moorings.

The night was calm. The brilliant starlight made it an easy matter to discern the double line of transports.

"By Jove," ejaculated Fortescue, "they're raising steam! They are sailing to-night after all!"

"No good cooling our heels here," said Selwyn. "Let's borrow a boat, since we can't find an owner. The wind's dead on shore, what there is of it; we can cast her adrift after we get on board."

"And put five shillings on one of the thwarts," added Malcolm. "The fellow who finds it will be repaid for his trouble."

Of the six boats all were without gear save one. In vain they attempted to launch it down the beach; their united efforts were unavailing. Nor was Fortescue's suggestion to transfer the gear to a lighter craft productive of better results.

"These boats are as heavy as lead," declared Malcolm, wiping his heated brow. "I believe they're bolted and riveted to the ground. How about it? Suppose we swim out to the nearest of those boats?"

This proposition was adopted. The three men stripped, secured their clothing on top of their heads by means of their belts, and, two of them taking an oar in case the moored craft was destitute If means of propulsion, they slipped boldly into the water.

Malcolm was the first to reach the moored boat. Holding on to the gunwale with one hand, he unbuckled his bundle and tossed it into the boat; then, clambering over the stern, proceeded to dress while his companions "got aboard". There were oars already, as well as mast, sails, and other gear.

On the strength of having stroked his college boat Fortescue took command. Under his directions the rudder was shipped, and an attempt made to raise the anchor. The three men heaving together very nearly put the boat's bows under, but the refractory mooring refused to come home. Did they but know it, they were vainly trying to raise an iron chain attached to a mass of stone weighing nearly half a ton.

"We're going the wrong way about the trick," declared Selwyn. "See that rope with a chunk of wood on the end of it? That's fastened to the chain, so if we chuck the lot overboard we'll be able to make a start."

The mooring dropped with a resounding splash. Fortescue and Malcolm manned the oars and gave way with a will.

"Jolly hard graft," muttered Malcolm breathlessly after a quarter of an hour's strenuous work. "Do you think we're getting any nearer? I don't."

Fortescue glanced over his shoulder.

"No, I don't," he admitted bluntly. "What's more, the transports are 'on the move. That's put the kybosh on the whole contraption."