CHAPTER XVII

"Good Old 'Vindictive'!"

"Clear lower deck, supernumeraries fall-in on the quarter deck."

To the accompaniment of the bo's'un's mates' pipes the order given in hoarse, strident tones, was repeated in various parts of the ship.

The _Vindictive_, with 200 tons of cement in her after-magazines and in the upper bunkers on both sides, was lying in Dunkirk Roads in company with the _Sappho_, which had been hurriedly fitted out at short notice to act as an additional block-ship in the operations against Ostend.

Two men clad in bluejackets' working rig heard the order not without emotion. The instinct to obey--the result of three years' service under the White Ensign--was strong; but resisting the impulse the two remained "as you were", sheltering from observation in a corner of a disused flat abaft the after-magazine.

Clearing out the supernumeraries--men embarked to assist in the navigation of the _Vindictive_ across Channel--was a slow process. Again and again alert, lynx-eyed petty officers scoured the ship to make certain that the additional hands had fallen in. More than once the flat in which the disguised Seton and Branscombe were concealed was inspected, but no one thought to pay particular attention to a heap of empty cement sacks that camouflaged the determined stowaways. After half an hour of suspense, they felt secure.

"They're gone," whispered Seton, taking a pull at a water-bottle and passing it on to his companion. "Stuffy show, isn't it? Good thing we provided ourselves with biscuits and water."

"Hope to goodness the stunt won't be declared off," remarked Branscombe. "Let's see; we're due to arrive off the Stroom Bank at 2 a.m. That means that we've got to lie low for another four hours. It wouldn't be safe for us to show up before 1.30 at the earliest."

"No one will notice us if we hang about the main deck," objected Seton. "I don't want to miss any of the fun. Besides, as soon as the ship's under way, they wouldn't slow down to send us ashore."

The somewhat erratic pulsations of the _Vindictive's_ engines--for since the Zeebrugge operations, when her propellers got foul of the Mole, the hard-worked machinery was far from perfect--announced that the venerable and historic cruiser was leaving the Roadstead, and the two chums left their place of concealment and made their way to the starboard battery on the main deck.

Not a light was shown on board. In the darkness they were unrecognized as strangers, and boldly mingling with others of the depleted crew they had the satisfaction of finding that their carefully laid plan was being carried out without a hitch.

"What's wrong with the old _Sappho_?" inquired a seaman, who was looking out of the gun port. "She's dropping astern."

"Something wrong with her," agreed his "raggie". "Hope that won't put a stopper on this little jaunt."

As a matter of fact it very nearly did. The _Sappho_ had hardly cleared the anchorage when a man-hole joint in the side of her boilers blew out, instantly reducing her speed to six knots.

"It's all right, mates," announced a petty officer, who was making his way aft through the battery. "The Admiral has just signalled. We are to carry on without the _Sappho_."

"The ball's opened," exclaimed several voices, when at 1.43 a.m. the sound of a furious cannonade was borne to the ears of the _Vindictive's_ company.

Unlike previous operations there was in this no preliminary bombardment. For several nights past Ostend had been left severely alone by our monitors and bombing planes. This had the result of lulling Fritz into a state of false security, and in consequence the took-outs were taking things easy.

But now, at a pre-arranged signal, hell was let loose over Ostend. From the air large bombing machines rained their deadly missiles upon the batteries and land-approaches to the town. From seaward the monitors, some with 17-inch guns, opened a furious and accurate bombardment, while from the battle line in Flanders heavy siege-guns pounded the hostile batteries on the left flank of the defences.

Almost immediately after the opening of the bombardment patches of local fog enveloped the approaching flotilla, while the artificial smoke-screen set up by the coastal motor-boats, although protecting the _Vindictive_ from direct fire, helped to render her navigation a difficult matter.

Through the night mists dull flashes showed that the British destroyers were standing in to engage the batteries, while the Huns, in a frenzied sort of way, concentrated most of their guns on a continuous barrage fire across the entrance to the harbour.

It was through this deadly hail of projectiles, large and small, that the _Vindictive_ was literally compelled to feel her way. As long as she remained in the smoke-screen she was fairly immune from hostile fire, but directly she drew near the shore she would be the target of hundreds of guns.

Peering through a gun-port, which had been additionally protected by walls of sandbags, Seton noticed a white light showing faintly through the drifting smoke. It was the calcium light placed at certain intervals by the British to enable the _Vindictive_ to fix her position, thus countering the ruse on the part of the Huns that had succeeded too well in the abortive attack on St. George's Day--the removal of the recognized navigation buoys.

For a little more than ten minutes the _Vindictive_ held on a course that ought to have brought her off the entrance to the harbour. Anxiously those responsible for navigating her kept a sharp look-out, in the hope of sighting the now familiar piers. Then, as the entrance was obviously missed, the ship altered course to west'ard, keeping parallel to the shore and maintaining a speed of only nine knots.

After a while orders were given to alter course sixteen points to starboard, which meant that the ship would retrace her course and steer eastwards. Again the elusive harbour was missed, and once more a course was shaped to the westward.

In the midst of this serious game of maritime blindman's buff--for it was possible to see only three hundred yards or so owing to the density of the fog and smoke--the entrance suddenly came into view at one cable's length distant on the port beam.

It was now neck or nothing. Orders were given to "prepare to abandon ship", the officers on the bridge retired into the conning-tower in order to con the ship with the least risk (as if such a condition were possible), and the _Vindictive_ was steered straight for the harbour entrance.

Directly the _Vindictive_ sighted the shore the hostile batteries sighted her. Instantly a terrific cannonade was opened upon the ship.

In the midst of the terrific hammering, which shook the staunch old vessel from stem to stern, a petty officer came tearing along the deck.

"You hands fall in abaft the conning-tower," he shouted, addressing Seton and Branscombe. "Communication's broken down. You're wanted to convey orders to the engine-room. Look alive!"

There was no delay on the part of Alec and his chum to execute the order. At last they were doing something useful instead of remaining inactive in the battery, waiting to take the place of any casualties.

It was a dangerous post, for there was little or no protection without the conning-tower, which was one of the principal objectives of the German gunners.

The ship was still forging ahead, slowly but steadily. The air was thick with fragments of flying metal, as shells burst in, over, and around her.

At last! Literally making her way through a tornado of shot and shell, the _Vindictive_ passed between the pier-heads. Smoke, pouring from her engine- and boiler-rooms, mingled with the vapour from bursting projectiles. Happen what might, the block-ship was inside the harbour and success was within reach.

It was now necessary to alter course, and since communication between the conning-tower and the steering-flat had been interrupted, Commander Godsal, quitting the doubtful shelter of the conning-tower, stepped outside and shouted for hard-a-starboard.

By this time the din was absolutely terrific. Seton, standing at the foot of the bridge-ladder, was unable to hear a word of the captain's order. He made a rush to ascend and get instructions.

"Pass the word for hard-a-starboard," shouted the captain again.

"Aye, aye, sir!" replied the disguised sub-lieutenant.

He was in the act of descending the ladder when a heavy shell hit the conning-tower. A hot blast literally blew Alec from the ladder and hurled him violently against one of the ventilating shafts. Deafened by the concussion, he strove to regain his feet, but his limbs seemed devoid of feeling. Wisps of burning woodwork were lying all around. His canvas jumper was smouldering, yet he lacked the strength to smother the smoking fabric.

The next impression was that of being lifted from the deck. Branscombe, seeing his chum's plight, had hurried to the rescue.

"Captain's orders: hard-a-starboard!" exclaimed Seton. "Leave me, old man, and pass the word."

Branscombe, waiting only to divest Alec of his smouldering jumper--it was a work of a few seconds only--tore off to the steering-flat. Promptly the hand-wheel party obeyed, and the cruiser swung round to port.

It was the last order that the gallant Godsal gave. The shell that had hurled Seton like a feather in a gale had literally blown the _Vindictive's_ skipper to atoms. Lieutenant Sir John Alleyne, the navigating officer, was rendered unconscious by the concussion, which also gave the occupants of the conning-tower a bad shaking.

Immediately Lieutenant Victor Crutchley assumed command. Everything depended upon his orders during the next few seconds, for the ship was still swinging to port and, if her course was not altered, she would probably ground in a useless position.

Ordering the port engine to full-speed astern, Lieutenant Crutchley tried to get the ship to swing across the narrow channel between the piers. Unfortunately the port propeller, which had been badly damaged at Zeebrugge, refused its allotted task, and the ship's bows grounded against the eastern pier.

For a few moments it seemed as if the old ship would swing athwart the channel, but it soon became apparent that she was hard and fast aground. Nothing more could be done but to sink her as she lay.

The while the _Vindictive_ was subjected to a terrifically hot fire. The after-control had been completely demolished, killing every man in it. The upper works were literally shattered, while the decks were littered with debris and the bodies of slain and wounded men.

"Don't move, old man!" exclaimed Branscombe, who had returned to his chum. "The order's given to abandon ship. I'll stand by you right enough."

"You've been hit," said Seton, as he caught sight of a dark, gradually-increasing stain on the right side of Branscombe's jumper.

"Machine-gun bullet copped me," replied Branscombe. "Nothing much. Heavens! We've had a hammering, but we're here this time."

"Any sign of the M.-L.'s?" asked Alec after a pause.

"They'll be here in a brace of shakes," replied Branscombe confidently.

The _Vindictive_ had now settled on the bottom of the harbour with a slight list to starboard. The Huns were still maintaining a hot fire merely out of sheer rage. They knew perfectly well that the ship was sunk, and that no military advantage could be obtained by continuing to shell her. They were determined to prevent the rescue of her crew. Massacring survivors of sunken ships is one of the gentle pastimes of the "Kultured" Hun, and he now was doing his best to keep up his reputation.

Meanwhile, on board the water-logged cruiser the utmost order was maintained. In spite of the galling fire, men were coolly searching for their wounded messmates and removing them to the safest possible places until the expected rescue craft arrived.

"Here they are!" shouted a score of voices, as a dazzle-painted M.-L. emerged from the pall of smoke and headed straight for the stranded ship.

Through the shell-torn water M.-L. 254 raced. Her cool and calculating R.N.V.R. commander knew his job. He came alongside, selecting the _Vindictive's_ port side--that nearest the eastern pier--in which he showed admirable judgment, for in the narrow space between the ship and the pier the little M.-L. was temporarily sheltered from direct fire.

"Now, then!" exclaimed Branscombe. "Up with you, old man!"

Assisted by his wounded chum, Seton regained his feet. Desperately weak, he was able, with Branscombe's assistance, to make his way along the inclined deck to where the M.-L. lay grinding in the tidal swell.

Wounded men were being assisted on board the little craft with the utmost celerity, yet with due care to their desperate condition, until, with close on forty undaunted survivors of the _Vindictive's_ crew, M.-L. 254, heavily laden and deep in the water, cast off and backed astern. Great though her task had been to dash into the harbour, the difficulties that awaited her on her return run were far greater. Coolness, good judgment, and a special dispensation of Providence were needed to enable her to escape from the fiery jaws of the deadly trap.