Before the destroyer could work up to her maximum speed her knife-like bows rasped and bit deeply into the hull of the doomed unterseeboot. An almost imperceptible jar as the quivering vessel glided over her prey, a smother of agitated water on either hand, and the deed was done. Another of the modern pirate craft had been dispatched to its last home.
"Voices ahead, sir," shouted the look-out man. "Land ahead! By smoke! We've done it."
The engine-room telegraph bell clanged shrilly. As the propeller blades bit the water with reversed action the "Antipas" began to lose way. It was too late.
With a shock that threw almost every officer and man to the deck the destroyer charged bows on to a ledge of rocks. Her forefoot lifted almost clear of the water, while to the accompaniment of the hiss of escaping vapour from a fractured main steam-pipe, the "Antipas" buckled amidships.
"Clear lower deck! All hands fall in facing outboard!" ordered the skipper.
From the mess-deck the "watch below," already roused by the impact of the destroyer with the ill-starred U-boat, came tumbling out, forming up in orderly silence to await further commands. Out of the steam-laden stokehold and engine-room staggered black-faced, partly-clad men, many suffering from the effects of terrible scalds, while others, too badly injured to help themselves, were assisted by their heroic comrades. Risking a hideous death in the partly-flooded engine-room the devoted "ratings" performed acts of valour that, although unseen and unheard of, represent the acme of courage. Fresh from the overheated stokehold and engine-room the survivors of the "Black Squad" found themselves faced with the immediate prospect of involuntary immersion in the chill waters of the North Sea.
"Ahoy!" shouted a seaman at the skipper's instigation. "Where are we?"
"'Ard aground," replied a voice through the darkness.
In spite of their hazardous position several of the crew laughed, and tried to switch on a husky cough to hide their levity from their officers. The unknown's reply was certainly brief and to the point, but hardly the sort of answer that Tressidar required.
"Silence there!" he ordered.
Then a boyish voice penetrated the night air.
"You're on Black Ghyll reef," it announced. "Do you require any assistance?"
"Not at present," replied the lieutenant-commander. "You might stand by, though, in case we do."
The after part of the "Antipas" was now a couple of feet beneath the water, and had settled on the sandy bottom of the bay. With the falling tide—it was just after high-water springs when the destroyer grounded—there was no immediate necessity to abandon ship. Nevertheless it was imperative that the injured men should be taken ashore, and assistance obtained as quickly as possible if there should be any possible chance of salving the wreck.
"Clear away the whaler!" was the next order.
The boat was manned and rowed cautiously towards the shore. Although the sea was calm the men were in total ignorance of the nature of the coast. Lacking local knowledge they were not even at all certain whether a landing might be effected. On either side rose the jagged points of vicious-looking rocks, while looming against the misty starlight could be discerned a range of frowning cliffs with no apparent break in the line of continuity.
"Thank God that there ain't a stiffish onshore breeze," muttered the coxswain of the whaler. "'Tain't 'arf a rotten crib."
"Boat ahoy!" came the same boyish hail from the invisible strand. "Starboard a bit.... You're close on the Double Fang. I'll tell you when to turn.... Now, straight in. It's all sand here."
The whaler's forefoot grounded on the soft shore. The coxswain, producing a small handlantern from the stern sheets flashed it upon the group of figures gathered at the water's edge four Boy Scouts.
"Crikey!" ejaculated the coxswain admiringly. "You're game'uns. Wot are you doing here at this time o' night?"
"We're coast-watching," replied the patrol leader. "We had just collared a spy when your vessel ran ashore. There's a chief petty officer of coastguard up the top of the cliff."
The lad did not think it necessary to explain that the petty officer had rather wisely declined to risk his neck by clambering down the precipitous face of the rugged wall of rock. At his age he lacked the steady head and sureness of foot that were essential for such feats of agility.
"Landing's easy enough when you knows 'ow," remarked the coxswain. "I've been sent ashore to find out. Look 'ere, we've a dozen or more badly injured hands aboard, an' we wants to get 'em off. Any chance of carrying 'em up those cliffs?"
The lad shook his head.
"Not up the cliffs," he explained. "There's a path up the valley. It leads to Scarby."
"Any doctors there?"
"None nearer than Tongby. We'll send a couple of Scouts there, if you like."
"P'raps you'd better," agreed the man. "It's a tidy 'andful for our Pills—our doctor, that is. All right, chummy, you might stand by and give us a hail when we come ashore again. 'Tis a rum crib, swelp me, if it ain't—but it might be worse."
The whaler backed from the shore, to return presently with a heavy load of wounded men and other members of the destroyer's crew told off to carry the injured to the nearest house.
Guided by the patrol leader the grim procession set out on its journey of pain. The fearfully scalded men, temporarily bandaged by the R.N.R. Surgeon Probationer borne on the destroyer's books as doctor, groaned and uttered involuntary cries of agony as, in spite of the care of the bearers, they were jolted along the narrow, uneven path.
Presently the scout came to a sudden halt. "There's a man lying at the foot of the Cliffs," he exclaimed. "Why, it's Pattercough, the man we were looking for when we captured the second spy."
A seaman bent over the body.
"Dead as a bloomin' doornail," he announced. "He's broke 'is bloomin' neck an' saved the 'angman a job, I'll allow that is, if he's the spy you says he was. Lead on, matey. The dead must look after themselves while this affair's under way."
At the meeting of the path with the by-road the patrol-leader stopped.
"It's straight on to Scarby," he explained. "Bennet," he added, addressing his companion. "You go with these sailors and show them the coastguard station. Then come back; bring the other fellows along with you if they've returned. I'll go to the beach again in case there are more to be shown the path up the valley."
Meanwhile Lieutenant-commander Ronald Tressidar was "standing by" his wrecked vessel. He had done everything he could in the interests of the crew. Until day broke it was impossible to form an accurate idea of the extent of the disaster. It was galling to lose his command; there would be a court of inquiry. Of the issue of that Tressidar had no misgivings. The "Antipas" had run ashore in the course of an action with an enemy submarine. The mishap was to be deplored, but it was unavoidable. The destruction of the hostile submarine had been accomplished. That was the object of the destroyer's raison d'etre.
"Can we be of any use?" asked Fuller.
"Not in the slightest, thanks," replied the youthful skipper. "The best you fellows can do is to go ashore. Goodness only knows if there's a railway anywhere in the neighbourhood. At any rate, you can make your way back to Rosyth, and better luck next time. If by any possible chance I can keep you clear of the court of inquiry I will do so. I know perfectly well that you want to be hard at it again, and the 'Hippodrome' seems likely to be particularly busy very shortly, according to all accounts."
"Good luck, old man!" said Fuller earnestly, The three airmen shook hands with the skipper, and dropping into the whaler were rowed shorewards.
"Hard lines on old Tress," declared Fuller. "He'll come out with flying colours, of course; but just fancy the poor fellow cooling his heels ashore waiting for another command when out there——"