CHAPTER I

THE MYSTERIOUS CASE OF THE "ZIETAN"

IT was a scorching afternoon in the month of August. The slanting rays of the sun beat powerfully upon the tranquil waters of Portsmouth Harbour, while the white ensigns of the numerous warships fluttered idly in the almost motionless air.

Swinging easily at her moorings to the first of the young flood lay the torpedo-boat destroyer _Calder_, presenting a very different appearance from its trim state of a few days before. Engine-room defects had occasioned her return to harbour, and as these were of a somewhat serious nature, the opportunity was taken to place the destroyer into dockyard hands for at least two months. The commissioned officers had obtained permission to go on leave, while the _Calder_, in the charge of a gunner, was to be put into dock the following day.

_Ting-ting! Ting-ting! Ting-ting! Ting-ting!_ Eight bells had hardly sounded ere two men appeared on deck, scrambling agilely through the small hatchway that did duty for the ward-room companion. The first was the tall, lean-featured lieutenant-commander. The other, Sub-Lieutenant Gerald Tregarthen, needs a slightly longer introduction.

He was almost the same height as the commander, or a fraction under 5ft. 11 ins. in his socks, and was broad in proportion. His features, tanned by constant exposure to sun, wind, and spray, were clear-cut, almost boyish in expression, while at times there was a roguish light in his deep blue eyes.

Yet beneath the apparently boyish exterior lurked the spirit of a man. When occasion arose those merry lips would compress themselves into a thin, straight line, the powerful chin would be thrust aggressively forward, and a dangerous glint in his eyes would betoken that resolution, coolness, and daring which are the indispensable characteristics of a successful naval officer.

His service career, in spite of its comparative shortness, had been one continued success, yet success had not been gained without sheer hard work. With a "first" in gunnery, torpedo, and navigation, he found himself at an early age well up on the list for promotion.

Gerald Tregarthen was in mufti; but his well-cut civilian clothes could not conceal the erect bearing and breezy alertness that characterised the British naval officer. Taking advantage of the _Calder's_ temporary idleness, he had applied and obtained permission for six weeks' leave, and, strange as it may appear, his intention was to spend the best part of that time afloat.

There is a story told of a London 'bus-driver who devoted a rare holiday to playing the role of passenger on his own vehicle. Similar motives doubtless prompt hundreds of bluejackets and marines to hire private skiffs during their leave. One has but to go to Southsea beach, the shores of the Hamoaze, or the mouth of the Medway to see jolly tars and jovial "joeys" rowing in shore-boats as if that form of recreation was the greatest treat imaginable. It is, then, not so much to be wondered at that Gerald Tregarthen elected to spend most of his leave on board the 4-ton cutter _Playmate_, at that moment lying in Poole Harbour, the yacht being owned by his old school-chum, Jack Stockton.

The appearance of the two officers on deck was immediately followed by the hoarse orders of the quarter-master. The boat's crew manned the falls, and the little craft was brought alongside the destroyer's starboard quarter. Tregarthen's luggage, consisting only of a well-filled portmanteau, was handed over the side, and, having bade his senior officer goodbye, the sub-lieutenant took his place in the stern-sheets. A quarter of an hour later Gerald Tregarthen landed at the King's Stairs, and, followed by a seaman bearing his portmanteau, walked rapidly through the dockyard to the main gate. Here a lynx-eyed driver; spotting a likely fare, ran his taxi close up to the spot where the young sub. was standing.

"Town station for all you're worth," exclaimed Tregarthen, but ere he could enter the taxi a boy rushed up to him.

"Evening paper, sir? All the latest naval appointments."

This is a bait that rarely fails to draw the naval man. Taking the paper Tregarthen boarded the vehicle, and was soon bowling along towards the railway station.

Two unavoidable delays were sufficient to alter Tregarthen's arrangements, for on arriving at the town station he found that he had missed the 4.45 Bournemouth train by a bare two minutes. Little did he imagine that the loss of those two minutes was fated to effect a tremendous change in his career at no distant date.

"Next train 6.2, sir," replied a porter in answer to the sub.'s anxious inquiry.

"Just my luck. Over an hour to wait," soliloquised the disappointed sub., and sitting down and placing his portmanteau by his side, he unfolded the sheets of the newspaper.

The "Naval Appointments" he read with more than ordinary interest, inwardly commenting on the good luck or otherwise of those of the numerous officers he knew personally. Then the "Movements of H.M. Ships" attracted his attention. Lower down in the columns was a paragraph that, though he paid scant heed to it at the time, was to vitally affect him within the next few days:--

The new ironclad _Almirante Constant_ left the Tyne yesterday. A persistent rumour is being circulated in certain quarters that the vessel, which has been built with the utmost secrecy, is not, after all, to become a unit of the Brazilian navy. Our correspondent has made careful and exhaustive inquiries on this point, but the officials concerned maintain a strict reticence. One thing is certain, however--she is not at present armed, the contract for her ordnance being placed, we understand; with an American firm.

"Blest if I can understand why these South American republics want such up-to-date ships," mused the sub. as he turned over the refractory pages. "It's like giving a child a razor to play with. Well, I suppose it means work for the North Country shipyards; but should any European power lay its hands on half a dozen of them I'm afraid our naval supremacy will have but a very small margin. Hallo! What's this?"

A telegram from Wilhelmshaven, dated the 11th inst., states that the Imperial third class cruiser _Zietan_ has arrived here apparently in difficulties, in charge of two tugs. Captain Schloss immediately landed and despatched a lengthy report to the German Admiralty, but, as shore leave is refused, our correspondent is unable to obtain details of the accident from any of the officers or crew. We have reason to believe that a serious disaster has taken place on board.

Later.----From the master of the tug _Vulkan_ we learn that the cruiser _Zietan_, while two hundred miles west of Heligoland, suddenly encountered a violent and unprecedented magnetic storm. Practically every electric wire on board was fused, the wireless gear was hopelessly broken down, and the compasses rendered absolutely useless. The _Zietan_ was, in fact, instantaneously reduced in fighting value to below that of a cruiser of thirty years ago. It is stated that the ship is still highly charged with electromagnetism, and will have to go into dock for a lengthy period. Captain Schloss was heard to express his doubts that the cruiser would ever be fit for sea-service again.

Gerald Tregarthen read this report with more than ordinary interest. At first he was inclined to scoff at the intelligence. It savoured too much of a fairy story, while it was more than possible that the master of the German tug had been, to use a nautical term, "pumped." Even in his somewhat brief career the sub-lieutenant had experienced several severe electrical storms in the tropics, but the ship's compasses and delicate electrical gear had never been seriously affected. This new danger, should it be repeated, threatened to increase the trials and troubles of the navigator a thousandfold.

"By George!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I must wire to Jack Stockton, or he'll wonder what's happened. But where shall I wire to? It's no use addressing it to the yacht--the post office people will keep the telegram till called for. I have it. I'll wire to Stockton, care of station-master, Poole."

Accordingly Tregarthen strolled over to the post office, discharged his mission, and returned to the dreary platform. At length the long-drawn hour passed, and, taking his seat in a first-class carriage, the sub-lieutenant steeled himself to endure the discomforts of a tedious journey.

At Southampton West his supply of literature was exhausted, so a sixpenny novel and a copy of a London evening paper were purchased. Occupying a prominent position in the newspaper was a further report from Reuter's agent in Wilhelmshaven:--

The mysterious disaster to the cruiser _Zietan_ appears to be far more serious than was at first supposed. The ship is evidently heavily charged with an unknown form of electricity. Her standard compass has been sent to the Imperial Laboratory at Berlin. Meanwhile the huge cruiser _Von der Tann_, that was lying in the next dock to that occupied by the _Zietan_, has been affected by the inexplicable current. To avoid further ill-effects, orders have been given to undock the _Zietan_ and move her out in the stream.

The next paragraph was to the effect that all telegraphic reports relating to the _Zietan_ incident had been received via Middlekerke and Dumpton Gap, the submarine cable between Borkum and Lowestoft being interrupted. A telegraph cable ship had left the Thames in order to locate and remedy the fault.

"Seems something in this business after all," remarked Tregarthen; then, as his eye caught the blurred type of the "Stop Press News," he read:--

_Zietan_ incident cable _via_ Lowestoft reports that all traces of phenomenon have vanished. Compasses and electrical gear in normal working order.

The young officer folded up the paper and thrust it under the straps of his portmanteau. The cheap novel remained unread. For the rest of the journey Tregarthen was in a brown study, cudgelling his brains as to what he would do should he ever find himself in command of a vessel under similar circumstances. It was growing dark as the train drew up at Poole. Alighting, Gerald, rapidly passing along the crowded platform, sought his old school-fellow. But no Jack Stockton was to be seen.