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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Sexton Blake and Tinker Join the British Navy—
Foreign Spies at Work—The Secret of the King's Bastion.
"HALLO! Where did they pick you up? The last time I saw you, you were standing in the gutter selling matches."
A tall, sour-faced youth, newly drafted from a training-ship to join his Majesty's first-class cruiser Durham, paused by the fore barbette, and surveyed a smart-looking, bright-eyed youngster with an air of great condescension. Nathaniel Blossom had been on board the Durham exactly one week, hence his assumed air of superiority over the bright-eyed youngster, who had only been on board five minutes.
"That's where I last saw yer," repeated Nathaniel Blossom—" standing in the gutter selling matches!"
"Yes; and you bought a couple of boxes, and went off without paying for them," retorted the new-comer, who knew very well that Blossom had never set eyes on him before. "Perhaps you had better settle up now."
There was a laugh from two or three bluejackets and marines who were standing near, and one of the former clapped the bright-eyed boy on the shoulder, observing:
"You'll do. What's your name?"
"Tinker," replied the youngster.
"Look here; sonny," exclaimed Tom Davis, able seaman and coxswain of the first cutter, "a joke's a joke, but when you give a cheeky answer to a civil question, it goes beyond a joke. I asked for your name——"
"And I gave it to you right enough," said Tinker. "It isn't much of a name, but it's my own, what there is of it, and I don't mean to change it."
"Well, blow me if I ever met anyone of that name before!" cried "Tom Davis. "Here, cast your bag down below, sonny, and find out the number of your mess."
Tinker descended to the mess deck, where, on inquiry from a petty officer, he found that he would have to join No. 10 mess. He also found that this was the mess to which Nathaniel Blossom belonged. That youth had preceded him to the lower deck, and, lounging against the mess-table, spread himself out to " get his own back," and "take a rise" out of the green hand.
"So you've found your way downstairs to the parlour, Mr. Tinker," he said facetiously, winking at the other members of the mess, "The servants will bring in the tea presently, and while we're waiting, p'r'aps you'll tell us the name of your last ship?"
"The Nonsuch," replied Tinker promptly. "Ten decks and no bottom. What mud-barge were you dragged up in?"
The would-be clever youth flushed red with anger, while his messmates roared with laughter at his discomfiture.
He strode threateningly up to Sexton Blake's young assistant.
"Look 'ere," he snarled, "you've given cheek every time you've opened your mouth, and you haven't been a quarter of an hour aboard this ship yet. If you give me any more, I-"
"Stow that talk!" interposed a short, broad-shouldered ordinary seaman, by name Jimmy Wharton. "Give the youngster a chance, You've only been a week out of a training-ship yourself, and you know precious little as yet of life on a sea-going ship. Come along with me, Tinker, and I'll show you where to stow your kit, and where you'll have to sling your hammock to-night."
At this rebuff, Nathaniel Blossom subsided into silence, for he knew that Jimmy Wharton, genial, good-tempered, and "one of the best," would, nevertheless, not put up with any nonsense. But Blossom had one of those crooked natures which fostered a trivial grievance until it became magnified out of all proportion to its value. Thus he nursed a spite against Tinker because his attempts to make him look foolish had signally failed, which grew into positive hatred, and he declared to himself that he would " get even with him" before they had been many days at sea.
But if Tinker had already made an enemy on board the Durham, he had also made a very good friend, for, with his quick insight into character, he realised that Jimmy Wharton was sterling and true. And he won that young seaman's friendship by his cheerful willingness to do all that was in his power to make himself useful, although as yet everything on board the cruiser was naturally strange to him.
At about the same time that Tinker was tasting his first experience of life on a warship, Sexton Blake was making the acquaintance of his future comrades in No. 17 mess of the Durham.
It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to state that both he and Tinker were there professionally. For some time past the Admiralty officials had an uneasy suspicion that foreign spies were endeavouring to learn some very important naval secrets connected with submarine mines, harbour defences generally in the principal British seaports, and particularly about a new pattern torpedo, which it was believed would prove to be the most terrible weapon of that class ever invented. Then suddenly it came to the ears of the Naval Secret Service Department that a plan of the defences of Portsmouth Harbour had been sold to Germany.
As a consequence, the entire submarine defences of that port had to be altered, at considerable trouble and expense.
But at the same time it became known that a party of foreign spies, more daring, more skilful, and more unscrupulous than any who had preceded them, were making strenuous endeavours to obtain possession of other important secrets.
But they were so cunning, and were so perfectly organised, that, beyond the fact that they were in existence, nothing further was known about them. Yet an instance of their terrible methods, and of the startling manner in which they gained a knowledge of any attempt to betray them, was made strikingly manifest only two days before Sexton Blake took the case in hand.
A high official of the Admiralty received a letter signed "Sebastian Garth," in which the writer stated that he could place important information at the disposal of the Admiralty that would lead to the capture of the spy who stole the plans of the Portsmouth defences. In consequence of this letter, an appointment was made with Sebastian Garth for the following day.
But he never appeared, and later on he was found stabbed to the heart in his lodgings.
Under these circumstances, the chief of the Naval Secret Service Department sent for Sexton Blake, and entrusted the great detective with the task of hunting this band of foreign spies down, and baffling their plans.
And Blake, thorough in everything that he undertook, decided, after mature consideration, to join the Navy as a seaman, as in that capacity he would have an opportunity of pursuing his investigations without exciting the suspicion of the watchful plotters.
Matters were easily arranged at the Admiralty, and he was simply entered as a seaman who had been transferred from the Naval Reserve.
He was quite at home on board a warship, for on a previous occasion he had made a long cruise in an American ironclad, when engaged on a naval case for the United States Government, and he had learnt a good deal while on that cruise.
Tinker, of course, accompanied him now, as he found that the boy's services were almost indispensable. He had joined the Durham because it was that ship which had been fitted with the new torpedo.
One clue only had Sexton Blake to work on, and that did not appear to be a very valuable one. It was merely a crumpled card, the size of an ordinary visiting-card, with three black dots at the top right-hand corner.
He had found it in the room where the body of Sebastian Garth had been discovered. Presumably, it had been overlooked by the police. But Sexton Blake decided that it was worth keeping, for it was possible that it had been dropped by the man who committed the murder. And the man who committed the murder was, without doubt, one of the band of spies.
On the day after Blake and Tinker joined the Durham, she put to sea, en route for Gibraltar, which was to be her first of call.
While crossing the Bay of Biscay, the cruiser met with some rough weather, and Tinker suffered accordingly. Possibly, Nathaniel Blossom would have seized this opportunity of "getting even" with him but for the fact that he was himself considerably more seasick than Tinker.
On the third day out from Portsmouth, Cape Finisterre was sighted on the port bow, and the weather changed shortly afterwards, becoming bright and clear, with light breezes and smooth water.
"This suits me exactly," observed Tinker, who had by this time recovered from his attack of seasickness. "I've felt pretty useless during the past two days, though. I say, who is that chap that keeps looking this way at us while he is pretending to look at something on the water astern of the ship?"
Sexton Blake and Tinker were standing by the casement of the after 6-inch gun on the starboard side, and the man to whom the boy had referred was standing by the stokehold grating, forward.
He was a dark-complexioned man, with a cruel-looking jaw and mouth, and a resolute expression in his eyes that seemed to suggest that he would stick at nothing to gain any end that he had in view.
"He is a stoker," replied Blake. "But if I am anything of a judge, I should say he is superior to the general run of stokers. I know nothing about the man, but, as he seems to take an interest in us, we will return the compliment by taking an interest in him. "You understand?"
"Yes, sir. You want me to keep an eye on him?"
"We will both keep him under observation," pursued Blake. "I don't know that his name is of much consequence, but I will find it out."
It appeared that the man's name was John Smith—at least, that was the name entered upon the ship's books. His messmates did not appear to know much about him, except that he had spent his money freely in Portsmouth, but now that he was at sea, seemed inclined to hold aloof from his comrades.
Captain Howard of the Durham was an officer who thoroughly believed in getting a fresh crew accustomed to their ship and in a perfect state of efficiency as soon as possible. Evolutions of different descriptions were practiced from the very start of the voyage; but a certain drill which the ship's company went through that night was fated to have a startling result—so far as Sexton Blake was concerned.
Eight bells—midnight—had just struck, when the shrill notes of the bugle sounded "Night quarters." In an instant the quiet decks of the ship became alive with men running to their appointed stations. Stokers went to water-tight doors; officers gave crisp orders, which were at once obeyed. On the mess-deck there was a rattling of chains, as the black muzzles of the 6-inch guns protruded from the ship's sides. Huge projectiles were hoisted from the shell chambers to the barbettes ready to be placed in the big guns; while in the submerged torpedo flats torpedoes were all ready to be fired.
Sexton Blake's station was in the after torpedo flat, far down in the depths of the ship, and it was here that the new Whitehead torpedo, of which so much was expected, was stowed.
"We are going to have some experiments with this chap," said Mark Kingsley, seaman-gunner and torpedo-man, patting the new torpedo affectionately; "but in the meantime he's not to be handled."
"I am rather surprised that it is left here for anyone to examine who may choose to do so," remarked Sexton Blake, "particularly as the secrets of its mechanism have to be so jealously guarded."
"No one has any business down here but torpedo-gunners, replied Kingsley; " and they've got to know as much as possible about the weapon they have to handle."
"But it would be possible for the spy of a foreign government to find a way of getting down into this submerged flat——"
"Don't you believe it," interposed Kingsley confidently. "No foreign spy would get lower down than the mess-deck."
Blake did not pursue the subject, but, knowing something more about the resourcefulness of gentry of this description than the bluff seaman he was speaking to, he ventured to hold quite a different opinion. Kingsley, of course, did not know that Jack Sexton—as Blake now called himself—was a detective. In fact, the captain was the only person on board the ship who was aware of that fact.
Presently the bugle sounded again. The evolution was ended, and the men of the watch below were free to turn into their hammocks.
Sexton Blake was about half-undressed, when he discovered that his notebook was missing. He had had it in his pocket, and supposed that it must have fallen out while he was in the submerged torpedo flat. It was too precious to be lost, so, slipping on his jumper again, he made his way down to the grim and silent depths of the ship once more.
The electric lights were now switched off, and when he reached the ammunition passage he had to grope his way along with his fingers on the steel sides of the passage, for it was too dark to see.
At the end of the ammunition passage there was a small hatch, and a ladder leading down to the torpedo flat. He had almost reached this hatchway when he heard a faint sound, like the "pad-pad" of bare feet.
There was another person down there, and unless, like him, one of the torpedo-men had left something in the flat, and had come to recover it—an unlikely coincidence—this other person had no business there.
The footsteps were stealthy, and were approaching him.
"Who's there?" demanded Blake.
There was no reply, but the unseen individual made a rush, and, butting full into the detective, sent him headlong to the ground.
With the quickness of thought Blake reached up his hands, and just managed to grip the man's right ankle, bringing him also down heavily. Then on the iron floor of the ammunition passage there ensued a sharp struggle, which unfortunately did not terminate in the detective's favour.
His antagonist had managed to grip him by the throat, and banged his head savagely against the iron flooring. Blake, dazed and stunned, relaxed his grip, and the fellow at once sprang to his feet and made off. By the time the detective had pulled himself together again and scrambled to his feet, his late adversary had got clear away, and it was of no use trying to follow him.
But Blake retained in his left hand a small souvenir of the struggle which might prove of service in tracing his assailant. It was a piece of the collar of the man's serge jumper, but little more than an inch square, but sufficient as a clue.
"The man can't get away from the ship," mused Blake, "for we are too far off the land for the best of swimmers to contemplate swimming the distance. That is one advantage of being at sea. Now, if the captain will consent to hold a kit inspection, there ought to be no difficulty in discovering the torn jumper."
Having secured his notebook, which, as he supposed, he had dropped in the torpedo flat, he returned to his sleeping quarters, and was very soon fast asleep in his hammock.
As it would have caused too much comment for an able seaman on a warship to be seen engaging in long conversation with his captain, a cipher code had been devised before they sailed from Portsmouth, by means of which Sexton Blake and Captain Howard were able to communicate with each other in writing.
By this means, therefore, Blake reported to the captain early the following morning his encounter with an unseen adversary in the ammunition passage shortly after " Night quarters" had been held. He, of course, mentioned the torn jumper.
As a result of this report, the captain held a kit inspection during the forenoon watch, very much to the surprise of all hands, as it was unusual to have it so soon after leaving port at the beginning of a commission.
But, curiously enough, the torn jumper was not discovered, nor was any man short of one of those articles of uniform. The kit inspection, from Blake's point of view, was a failure.
When the men were dismissed, Tinker purposely got close behind the stoker whose name was entered in the books as "John Smith."
"You're not a John Smith!" thought Tinker, as he watched the dark-complexioned man closely. "And——" He paused, for at that moment he intercepted a glance of mingled hate and triumph which the stoker directed at Sexton Blake. "And I'll stake all my savings that you are the man that Mr. Blake struggled with last night in the ammunition passage!"
On the following afternoon the Durham arrived at Gibraltar, and came to an anchor off the New Mole. Gangway ladders were lowered—one from the fore end of the ship for the use of the men, one aft for the officers. Shore beats came alongside with fruit and curios and all sorts of odds and ends that might find a ready sale among the bluejackets.
"John Smith," the stoker, was making a purchase—or pretending to make a purchase—from one of the boatmen. A letter passed from one to the other; then, as "John Smith" bent down to examine some Moorish filigree silver-work, the boatman whispered in his ear:
"The secret of the King's Bastion!"
Sexton Blake, standing at an open port unobserved, with a delicate little instrument called an auriphone fitted over one ear, heard the words, and was puzzled to fit an exact meaning to them.
Then all at once he understood.
Hurrying aft, he scribbled a cipher note to the captain; and ten minutes later he was going on shore on leave, presumably to see a sick relative, but really for quite a different purpose.
For Sexton Blake had no relatives, sick or well, living at Gibraltar.
The Spaniard—A Rendezvous of
Scoundrels— A Daring Plot —Trapped.
AT Gibraltar, as at other places where there is a large percentage of shady characters, there are men to be found who are ready, for a consideration, to supply all sorts of disguises to those who are willing to pay for them, whether the customer happens to be a criminal or a hunter of criminals.
Sometimes these men pretend to be theatrical costumiers, in a very small way of business, but, as a rule, they are individuals who follow some totally distinct, and possibly more law-abiding, occupation.
It was not the first time that Sexton Blake had been in Gibraltar, and he knew of one of these men, who lived in a small street in the North Town. He was a Spanish Jew, by name Manasseh Bardellai, and his ostensible business was that of a dealer in articles imported from Morocco.
Luckily, Blake found him at home when he reached that somewhat unpleasant quarter of the commercial town.
"What can I do for you, senor, my friend?" he demanded, as Blake came to a halt in front of the counter. "Everything that a British sailor likes I can provide. Beautiful silver-work; a shawl of lace made by Morocco women, for your sweetheart; or——"
"Disguise."
Blake interrupted him with the single word, spoken so quietly as to be scarcely above a whisper. But its effect on the Jew was startling. He leaped to his feet, and gasped out:
"Eh—what? Senor, my friend——"
"A disguise," repeated Blake. "Why are you so astonished at my request? It is not the first time that Manasseh Bardellai has provided a disguise for a customer."
The Jew had recovered somewhat from his astonishment by this time. Indeed, it was very seldom that he allowed himself to be betrayed into expressing surprise, no matter what his feelings might be. He leaned over the counter, and surveyed Blake with a keen and somewhat suspicious look.
"I have been in business for many years," he said, "but this is the first time I have been asked for a disguise by a British sailor."
"Well, I will create a precedent," replied Blake. "Come, shake a leg, Manasseh! Don't stand there staring at me; I'm not a wax figure on show!"
"The price is high for a good disguise, and perhaps——"
"You are afraid, I suppose, that I haven't the money to pay you?" interposed Blake. "I know quite well what your charges are, my hearty, and here is the money!" He tossed a sovereign on the counter. "Now lead the way into that back room of yours as quick as you like."
The Jew complied; and, if the truth must be told, he was not a little startled that this strange seaman—for he had no idea that Blake had ever been in the shop before— should know so much about him.
"Now, what sort of a disguise do you want?" he asked, as he closed the door behind them.
"I want the dress of a Spanish fisherman," replied Blake; "and I'll change into it here. I am able to make my face up myself, so I sha'n't want your assistance in that part of the business."
While Manasseh was hunting out the clothes, the detective was busily engaged in putting on his make-up. In a quarter of an hour the disguise was complete, and Blake might have returned on board his ship without fear of any of his messmates recognising the dark-skinned, black-moustached Spanish fisherman as " Jack Sexton," of No. 17 mess.
"Splendid! Splendid!" exclaimed the Jew. "I have never seen a better disguise. Caramba; That I have not! And now-—- Ha, ha!" His laugh was like the croak of a frog. "Why is this disguise—eh? game? as you British say. Is it the senoritas—the Spanish girls—that you wish to make love to?"
Sexton Blake laughed, but did not reply in words. As he had not the remotest intention of informing Manasseh Bardellai what his " game" was, he was quite willing to let him suppose that Spanish girls were the attraction.
"Take care, senor, my friend," pursued the Jew warningly. "It is a game that is dangerous. The Spanish men carry sharp knives, and are swift to use them.
"Thank you for your warning, Manasseh," replied Blake lightly. "A light—thanks! I must smoke a cigarito, like a true Spaniard. I hope to be back before midnight; but if I am not, take care of my uniform until I come to claim it."
He stepped out of the shop, and, strolling in a leisurely manner down the street, turned the corner in the direction of the Old Mole.
The Jew was watching him from a side-window with an expression on his face, in which curiosity and suspicion were mingled. As soon as Blake was out of sight, he hurriedly changed his old slippers for a pair of walking shoes, and, locking up his shop, went down the street in the same direction that the detective had taken.
"After the senoritas! senor marinero! I must find out what you are after. It may be worth my while. It is possible that a British sailor might have reasons for disguising himself; but I cannot believe that an ordinary seaman would have the skill that you, without doubt, have in changing your appearance, senor, my friend."
In the meantime, Sexton Blake was pursuing his way without giving the Jew a further thought. He had had dealings with Manasseh Bardellai before, and, although he did not entirely trust him, he saw no reason to suppose that he would attempt to pry into the business of his customers.
Under ordinary circumstances, no doubt, the Jew would not have thought of doing such a thing, but now he had special reasons for his change of tactics.
Blake's design was to find out the boatman who had whispered the extraordinary sentence in " John Smith's" ear—" The secret of the King's Bastion." He would try to get into conversation with him; or, failing that, he would shadow him, for he had a shrewd suspicion that he was not a genuine boatman at all.
In making his way to the Old Mole he had to pass the King's Bastion, which was a part of the old fortifications on the lower part of the rock, and looking across the bay.
As a defensive post against attack this particular part of the fortifications would not be of great value in these days of powerful artillery. And Blake wondered how these conspirators—for he had no doubt in his own mind that " John Smith " and the Spanish boatman were both members of the gang of foreign spies who were ferreting out so many important secrets—had discovered that the King's Bastion contained a secret which was jealously guarded by the naval authorities.
"There must be a traitor in the camp," he muttered. "He will have a short shrift if I have to deal with him," he added grimly.
On reaching the landing-place beyond the Old Mole, Blake lounged indolently against a stone parapet in true Spanish fashion, puffing slowly at the eternal cigarito, for which he would very much liked to have substituted his favourite briar.
For an hour and a half he hung about in that neighbourhood, and he began to fear that he would have to give up the quest for that day; when the man he was waiting for suddenly appeared.
He had been out in his boat again, and ran her alongside some steps, not a dozen yards from where the detective was standing. And he was not alone. A stoker of the Durham was seated in the stern of the boat. It was the man who called himself "John Smith."
"This is a bit of luck," Blake told himself. "If all goes well I shall be able to find out to-night exactly who 'John Smith' is."
It was past sunset, and the darkness of night was falling over sea and land. The two men sprang out of the boat, and made their way along one of the narrow streets that led up from the waterside.
Blake followed, and in the gathering darkness in an ill-lighted thoroughfare he found it an easy matter to shadow them, for he was an adept at shadowing.
They traversed several of the smaller streets, which were inhabited by the lower class of the " Rock scorpions "—as the mixed nation of natives of Gibraltar are called—and at length stopped in front of an inn that was, perhaps, a trifle less disreputable-looking than some of its near neighbours. Blake drew close up to them, hidden by an angle of the wall.
"Give the signal," said " John Smith," speaking in German.
The Spanish boatman was evidently well acquainted with that language, for he replied in the same tongue. Then he whistled three times in a peculiar manner, and, after a short interval, a side-door of the inn was cautiously opened.
"Who are you?" demanded the man in the doorway.
"Friends," was the reply.
"What is the number?"
"Three."
"What is the colour?"
"Black."
"Enter."
They passed into the house, and the door closed behind them.
"I have learned the passwords that gain one admittance to the secret meetings of this band," muttered Blake; "and that is something worth knowing. Somehow, the words seem familiar. ' Three—black——' Of course! There were three black dots on the card that I picked up in the room where Sebastian Garth's dead body was found."
The detective was in something of a dilemma now. Up to this point he had got on swimmingly, but now had come the check.
Having learnt the passwords he would, probably, have no difficulty in gaining admission to the house, for it was evident that the doorkeeper did not know all the members of the band of spies by sight. But although the doorkeeper might not know the various members by sight, it was not to be supposed that they did not, every man of them, know each other.
As they did not wear masks, it was evidently impossible for Blake to be present at the meeting, which he knew must take place at that very moment.
However, the famous detective was not a man who was to be daunted by obstacles. If once he gained admission to the house he might be able to find a place where he could secrete himself and see, or hear, all that was going on. It was necessary that he should take the risk. Momentous possibilities were in the balance during these next few hours, and it was not too much to say that it lay with him to avert the peril which threatened England's supremacy on the sea, and, therefore, her existence as a nation. It was a peril which even the Prime Minister and his colleagues scarcely realised to its fullest extent.
No sooner had Blake decided on a line of action than he took it without hesitation. So, making his way to the private door of the inn— which, by the way, did not seem to have any customers—he whistled in the peculiar manner that he had heard the boatman do when he gave the signal.
The door was opened, and the same questions were put by the doorkeeper, and answered by Blake as the others had answered them.
"Enter," said the doorkeeper.
The next minute Blake found himself in a dark passage, and the door was closed behind him. The doorkeeper evidently supposed that he knew his way to the room where the meeting was taking place, for he troubled no further about him.
The detective groped his way along the passage and up a flight of stairs, for he could hear the low, growling notes of men's voices coming from a back room on the floor above.
When he reached the landing he saw a thin ribbon of light showing beneath a door directly in front of him, and it was here that the conspirators were assembled. To have at tempted to gain entrance to the room would have been simply an act of folly, and running an entirely unnecessary risk at a time when it behoved him to be extra cautious.
In addition to this door at the end of the passage, there was one on the right hand and also on the left. He turned the handle of the one on the left, and it opened as he pushed against it. The room which he entered was a very small one, being not much bigger than a fair-sized cupboard. The interior was not in darkness, as a stream of light came from the next room through a grated aperture set high up in the wall.
It was eighteen inches above his head, but he found an empty packing-case in the room which was just high enough to enable him, when he stood upon it, to see through the grating. He closed the door noiselessly, and mounted upon the case.
There were five men in the adjoining room. Three of them were strangers to him, but the other two were " John Smith " and the boatman. The stoker was now garbed in an ordinary tweed suit, his uniform jumper, trousers, and cap being flung down into a corner.
"I hope," he said, speaking in English, which appeared to be the language adopted by the spies for general communication with each other, as they represented. several of the Continental nations, "that I shall never have to put on that accursed uniform again."
"The uniform of the nation we hate!" exclaimed one of the others. "I can appreciate your sentiments, Hammerlein, but don't you intend to return on board the Durham? There is that new torpedo, the secret of which we have to obtain. We must always have more than one string to our bow. It is only by wide and extensive operations that we can hope to make all the money we need."
"We must give up the torpedo business for the present," replied Hammerlein, for this appeared to be the real name of 'John Smith.' " There is one of the bluejackets on board the Durham who seems to have grown suspicious of me. He nearly caught me in the after torpedo flat when we were off the coast of Portugal; and there is also a devil of a boy who seems to be perpetually watching my movements. Himmel! It would have given me great satisfaction to have dropped him overboard one dark night."
"Well, we must leave the torpedo for some other opportunity," said the pretended boatman, whose name was Pedro Sala. "We have our work to do to-night which will need all our nerve, all our resource."
"You mean to gain the secret of the King's Bastion!" exclaimed Hammerlein.
"Yes, the King's Bastion is simply a laboratory," pursued Sala. "There is a gunnery lieutenant who spends the greater part of the twenty-four hours in there, working at his invention alone. It is a 7-inch shell, with an electric time-fuse, and it will be the most perfect projectile of its kind in use. It has a range of 15,000 yards, so you may guess that the navy which possesses that missile need fear no adversaries on the ocean. I have received information from the source that we know of that both shell and time-fuse are completed. To-night we must gain possession of them."
"Have you a plan?"
"Yes. There is a sentry posted outside the door of the laboratory. Ivan Kirilka will attend to him."
"Oh, yes; leave him to me," observed a savage-looking ruffian, who was very evidently a Russian. "I am quite an adept at removing sentries—relieving them from their duties, you know."
He laughed hoarsely at his villainous joke, and helped himself to some Spanish brandy from a bottle that was standing on the table.
"When the sentry is disposed of," continued Pedro Sala, "there will only be the gunnery lieutenant to deal with. That should not be difficult. He is a student rather than a sailor, and is by no means a physically strong man. My plan is this."
From this point the fellow spoke in so low a tone that, strain his ears as he would, Sexton Blake was quite unable to catch a word that he said. But before he had finished speaking there came an interruption, a sufficiently startling one from the detective's point of view. The door was opened, and a man entered.
The new-comer was Manasseh Bardellai, the Jew!
"Ha, Bardellai!" exclaimed Ivan Kirilka. "What have you come for? Do you bring any news?!"
"Yes," replied the Spanish Jew. "There is a stranger in this house!"
"What!"
The men leapt to their feet. Weapons were handled menacingly, and the evil faces of the conspirators were darkened with scowls.
"How do you know?"
By way of explanation Manasseh Bardellai told how a British bluejacket had come to his shop and obtained the disguise of a Spanish boatman. How he (Bardellai) had followed him to the landing-place beyond the Old Mole, but had eventually lost sight of him; and finally how, on inquiring of the doorkeeper, he had learnt that a man answering to the description had gained admittance to the house.
"But how could he gain admittance without the passwords?" cried Pedro Sala.
"He gave the passwords correctly," replied Manasseh.
"Der Teufel!" snarled Hammerlein. "It will be the bluejacket who was always watching me on board the Durham. I tell you he is a man that we have some cause to fear. But if he is in this house he has walked into a trap——"
"From which he shall not escape!" hissed Pedro Sala.
Sexton Blake decided that it was about time that he got out of his " observation room " and made for the entrance door. He could easily overpower the doorkeeper, but he would not have much of a chance against six armed men.
Stepping quietly down from the packing-case he turned the handle of the door. But the door would not open. It had locked itself automatically, and he was a prisoner.
There was only one thing to be done, and that was to smash the lock with a bullet from his revolver, and then make a rush for it. With this object in view he whipped the weapon out of his pocket, and placed the muzzle against the lock of the door.
But at the very moment that he pressed the trigger the floor of the room gave way under him, and he was precipitated into the unknown depths of blackness far below him.
Tinker's Stratagem—The King's Bastion—Foul Play—
A Desperate Struggle—The Fate of Ivan Kirilka.
BEFORE going on shore Sexton Blake had managed to give Tinker a hint of the reasons which had decided him to quit the ship so hurriedly, and also of his excuse which he had invented for the benefit of his messmates, who would naturally feel surprised, and possibly aggrieved, that one of their number should be allowed leave of absence directly the anchor was dropped, while others had to wait until " liberty men were piped away."
And Tinker was very much amused at the comments made about " Jack Sexton's" sick relative on the Rock. Some of the bluejackets evidently doubted the existence of this mysterious sick relative, while others stuck up for Sexton, who had made himself a prime favourite with every man on board whose good opinion was worth having.
"My opinion is that it is a put-up dodge," declared Nathaniel Blossom. "We ain't heard anything of Sexton's relatives at Gibraltar before he arrived here. If it ain't a put-up job, it's a bit of favouritism, that's what I say."
"Your opinion isn't worth much, Buttercup!" exclaimed Tinker.
"My name's Blossom!" cried that youth, striding up to Tinker, and thrusting his face close to the latter's in what he considered a threatening manner. "If you don't call me by my right name; I'll knock yer ugly head off."
Tinker smiled in the most unconcerned and aggravating manner. He had a peculiar knack in bestowing a nickname, in that it adapted itself to the person it was given to by reason of its ingenious whimsicality. For instance, the idea of calling the tall, sour-faced Nathaniel Blossom a buttercup was so absurd that it raised a yell of laughter from No. 10 mess when first they heard it. But the nickname stuck to him, nevertheless.
"You're too particular," said Tinker. "Your name is Blossom. Well, a blossom is a flower, and a buttercup is a flower. What more do you want? Do you want to be called Rosebud? You look as much like one as you do the other."
Nathaniel Blossom doubled his fists; and made a savage rush at Tinker. But the latter youth was too smart for his antagonist.
He dodged to one side, and then stuck out his elbow just as Blossom lurched past him. The result was that the point of his elbow caught his opponent in the ribs. He lost his balance, and went sprawling on the deck.
"That's a bit of ju-jitsu of my own invention!" exclaimed Tinker, as he darted up the hatchway ladder.
Then, as he made his way up to the upper deck, he sang "I'll be a buttercup, born in a meadow," to the great amusement of a group of bluejackets and marines who had witnessed the whole of the little comedy.
On reaching the upper deck, Tinker was promptly seized upon by an energetic bo'sun's mate, and sent into the fore armoured top to assist in cleaning the machine-guns that were mounted there.
This was a task that did not take very long, and when it was finished Tinker leaned over the rim of the top, and gazed wistfully towards the shore. Sexton Blake, he reflected, was very likely in the thick of an exciting adventure at that very moment, which he was doomed to take no part in.
He was roused from his. reverie by the bugle sounding "evening quarters" and away he went to fall in with the crew on the upper deck.
The inspection was soon over, and then the bo'sun's mate's whistle sounded cheerily as hands were piped to tea. At six o'clock one section of the crew was allowed to go on shore, and Tinker's delight was great when he found that he was included among the "liberty men."
As soon as he possibly could he slipped away from his shipmates after they had landed at the dockyard steps, and began to explore the town on his own account.
Having walked as far as the old Moorish castle, which overlooks the neutral ground, he turned and made his way down to the Old Mole.
By this time night had fallen, and, as he had seen nothing of Sexton Blake, he determined to stroll back quietly to the landing-steps and then return on board. Thus it chanced that he traversed the very street. in which the inn was situated where the plotters had assembled to discuss their plans. There was not a soul in sight, and the street was as silent as a tomb, when just as he drew level with the inn the silence was broken by the faint, muffled sound of a shot. It was the shot fired by Blake at the lock of the door just as the movable floor made its sudden descent, though, of course, Tinker did not know that.
But the sound of a shot was to Tinker what a bugle call would be to a cavalry charger. It put him instantly on the alert. Something unusual was happening within that gloomy-looking inn, and with the instinct of a born detective he determined to try and find out what it was.
At he stood close to the door he could hear men's voices, at first raised in anger, but afterwards sinking to a low, growling murmur, as though nothing more than an ordinary discussion was going on. But he could not make out what they said.
Ten or twelve minutes passed, and nothing further happened; then he heard the sound of descending footsteps on the wooden stairs. He had just time to secrete himself behind the same angle of the wall that Blake had used for the same purpose, when the door was opened, and five men came out into the street. Three of them went in one direction, and two in the other; but before separating they exchanged a few words.
"Have the boat ready"—it was Ivan Kirilka who was speaking; "for if we are to be successful we must get across to the other side of the bay as quickly as possible. Dirk Hatteras will look after our prisoner."
"I shall want one interview with him," snarled Hammerlein; "for I want to make sure that he is the man I suspect him to be. Afterwards we can decide on the manner of his death.
Tinker had caught a glimpse of Hammerlein's face.
"My goodness!" he muttered. "That is ' John Smith'; I remember he went on shore by himself, and not in the pinnace with his watchmates. And the prisoner they were talking about! It must be Sexton Blake—it must be! Well, I must find my way into this thieves' den somehow, and help him out of it. When he is clear of the place they can decide on all manner of deaths for him, if it gives them any satisfaction. It won't harm him then."
He waited for a few minutes after the men were out of sight, and then, picking up a stout piece of wooden paling that he found by the side of the road, he hammered on the door with it.
Then, as soon as he heard the bolts being withdrawn, he laid himself flat down right across the door. The door was opened, and the doorkeeper, stepping hurriedly out on to the side-walk to find out who had been knocking, tripped over Tinker's body and pitched face downwards into the road.
Tinker rose to his feet, and waiting until the doorkeeper had also scrambled up, promptly knocked him down again with his piece of paling. The man dropped like a felled ox.
"No time for ceremony!" muttered Tinker, as he dragged him inside the house and shut the door.
He then gagged him with his handkerchief, bound his wrists with the fellow's own waistbelt, and bound his ankles with the sleeve of his jacket, which he calmly ripped into strips for that purpose, Then he went in search of Sexton Blake.
Now, it so chanced that the detective's shot had fulfilled its purpose in that it had smashed the lock of the door.
Tinker, therefore, on mounting the stairs, had discovered one open door, beyond which was a small room, the flooring of which had vanished. He was sharp enough to guess pretty accurately what had happened; so, leaning over the threshold and gazing down into the black depths, he called out:
"Mr. Blake! Mr. Blake! Are you down there?"
Much to his delight, a reply came up out of the darkness in the detective's well-known voice:
"Is that you, Tinker?"
"It's me, sure enough, sir!" answered the boy. "Are you hurt?"
"I have had a bit of a shaking, but I am not seriously damaged!" was the cheery response. "I can't climb out of this pit of darkness without assistance, for the sides are as smooth as glass. Do you think you can get hold of a rope, or anything that will serve the purpose of a rope?"
"I'll have a look round," said Tinker. "If I can't find anything, I'll tear up my clothes! How far down are you?"
"About fourteen or fifteen feet."
Now Tinker had made one mistake—a very excusable one under the circumstances, but which might very easily have led to disaster.
He had heard Ivan Kirilka state that "Dirk Hatteras would look after the prisoner"; and he concluded that the doorkeeper, who was bound and gagged in the passage, was the man referred to.
But this was not the case, for Hatteras was one of the gang of spies, and was at that moment in the adjoining room, where the meeting had been held. Hearing a strange voice on the landing, he had at once rushed out of the room, and, seeing Tinker, had made a spring at him.
But the boy had turned round on hearing the door open, and nimbly dodged on one side as the fellow made a rush at him. The result was that Hatteras grabbed nothing but the empty air, and, staggering forward, pitched headlong into the pit, or whatever the place was, into which the descending floor had carried Blake.
"Well, that's very kind of you," said Tinker complacently, "and saves quite a lot of trouble. I hope you haven't fallen on to Mr. Blake, though."
It appeared that he had not, and the detective called up to say that Hatteras was evidently very badly hurt.
"He has only himself to blame," replied Tinker, as he cautiously entered the meeting-room in search of a rope, or something that would serve as a substitute. But, during his search, his eyes fell upon a small brass lever that was fixed against the side of the wall on his left. It was pointing downwards at an angle of forty-five degrees. He told Sexton Blake of his discovery, and asked him whether he should work it and see what happened.
"By all means," replied Blake. "It may be the lever that controls the mechanism connected with this movable floor."
It was. Tinker pushed the lever up, and immediately the floor was raised to its original position. It worked, in fact, on the same principle as a lift.
Sexton Blake stepped out on to the landing.
"I don't know how you ferreted me out, my lad," he said; "and we must leave our mutual explanations for another time. But you have not only rendered me a great service, you have probably also rendered Britain a far greater one."
"I am glad of that, sir," replied Tinker, his face flushing with pride at the detective's words of praise. "It is only right that I should do so, as I am wearing the King's uniform."
"Good lad!" exclaimed Blake, clapping him on the shoulder. "And now we must get out of this as quickly as possible. There is no time to lose. Lives are at stake. And more than that—the secret of the King's bastion is in danger of falling into the hands of our enemies."
"The secret of the King's bastion! What secret is that, sir?"
"I will explain that later. Have you a weapon of any sort?"
"Only a wooden paling."
"Here, take this fellow's revolver! It is loaded in all the chambers. You will probably want a handier weapon than a wooden paling."
"Oh, I found that pretty handy," said Tinker, "when I wanted something to put the doorkeeper out of action!"
They had no time to attend to the hurts of Dirk Hatteras. He was still unconscious, and they let him remain in the room with the movable floor. The doorkeeper had recovered from the effects of the tap on the head which Tinker had given him, but he could not wriggle out of his bonds, nor could he give the alarm by crying out.
As the street door was flung open, the light from a street lamp fell upon his face. He glared up at Sexton Blake with a look of mingled terror and hate. Then the door closed, and he was left to his reflections, which could not have been any too pleasant.
"There will be a surprise in store for his associates when they return," said Tinker.
"We shall have a surprise for them before that. I hope," replied Blake.
The famous detective knew every inch of the town of Gibraltar, and made his way by side-streets by the shortest possible route to the King's bastion.
The heavy outer gate was shut, but if was not fastened. He knew what this meant. The spies had already gained admittance to the bastion. But it was no more than he expected, for he had had examples of their daring and resource already.
Pushing open the gate, he ran along a narrow causeway, followed by Tinker. It was a dark and starless night, and it was impossible to avoid stumbling now and then; but in a couple of minutes they had reached the first embrasure of the bastion.
"Who goes there?"
The challenge of the sentry was not meant for them. It came from the right in the direction of the chamber which Lieutenant Mountford used as a laboratory. The window of the chamber was brilliantly lighted. The challenge rang out a second time, but there was no answer that they could hear.
Then suddenly there was the sound of a scuffle, which ended in a muffled shriek. A moment later a flood of light gushed out into the darkness as the laboratory door was flung open.
Outlined against the oblong patch of light were the figures of two men. They were entering the laboratory chamber. Blake dashed after them, and stumbled over the body of a man. It was the sentry, badly wounded.
Blake picked himself up and ran on into the inner room, whence there came the sounds of a fierce struggle.
"Help! Sentry! Help here!"
The shouts came from Lieutenant Mountford; but they ceased with ominous suddenness, and the heavy thud of a falling body followed upon their cessation. Then three masked figures came rushing from the laboratory chamber. Beyond them Blake could see the body of the gunnery-lieutenant, stretched motionless upon the floor. He and Tinker fired their revolvers together, but luck was dead against them just then. For as the boy pressed the trigger of his weapon his foot slipped, he stumbled against Blake, and disturbed both his own and the detective's aims. The result was that both bullets flew wide.
The next instant the three men, Sexton Blake, and Tinker were engaged in a wild hand-to-hand struggle.
The detective flung himself upon the leading man, who was carrying a heavy conical object, and the pair of them rolled on the floor together.
The other two men flung themselves upon Blake, after Tinker had been struck down by a savage blow between the eyes. The struggle was too uneven now to last long; but the detective fought with a desperate fury that staggered his assailants.
The prize on which the whole issue of the struggle hung was the specimen shell fitted with the electric time-fuse, which these miscreants had just stolen from the laboratory. Sexton Blake was trying his utmost to gain possession of it, and his antagonists were trying to retain it and make off with it.
At last Sexton Blake fell back with a groan.
Then, with an exultant cry, his nearest adversary—it was Ivan Kirilka—leaped to his feet with the shell in his arms, rushed across the causeway to the open gate, and then disappeared among the dark shadows of the sea-wall!
His two companions sped after him, but by this time Tinker had partially recovered his senses. He raised himself to a kneeling position, took careful aim with his revolver, and fired.
One of the men stumbled and fell, but speedily picked himself up again and ran on. He was hit, but evidently only slightly wounded.
But the guard had been aroused by the shots, and a sergeant with three men came rushing into the bastion. What has happened?" demanded the sergeant. Then seeing, as he supposed, a Spanish boatman, he cried fiercely: "Who the blazes are you?"
"It's all right, sergeant!' gasped Sexton Blake. "I belong to the Durham. No time for explanations now. I'm in disguise. Three foreigners have forced their way into the bastion, stabbed the sentry, overpowered Lieutenant Mountford, and made off with the new shell——"
"What! The shell invented by Lieutenant Mountford?" the sergeant cried. "Man alive, where are these foreigners? We must stop them if it's at the cost of putting a bullet into each one of them."
"Come up on to the battlements,' replied Blake. "I heard the sound of oars just now. One of them has got away in a boat."
The sergeant and his men rushed up on to the ramparts, but the detective followed in a more leisurely manner. A searchlight from one of the upper forts had by this time been turned upon the scene, and the bastion, the lower wall, and a great expanse of the bay were flooded with the brilliant radiance.
Right in the heart of this glare a boat, propelled by a single rower, was speeding across the water towards a large steam-launch that was moving slowly across the bay just beyond the circle of light.
"Shall I fire at the man in the boat? cried the sergeant. "Is that one of the fellows? He is not out of range yet."
"You need not trouble," replied Blake quietly. "He is practically a dead man already."
"What do you mean?"
"I have set the time-fuse of the shell," said Blake. "I managed to do it when I realised that I was getting the worst of the struggle. The man has not got thirty seconds to live."
The sergeant stepped a pace away from this man, dressed like a Spanish fisherman, who spoke so calmly of a tragedy that was about to be enacted before their eyes. A deathlike silence fell upon the little group of men, and every eye was turned upon the boat that was making its lonely way over the water, under the relentless glare of the searchlight.
Then all at once a great pillar of flame shot up into the night, its reflection turning a wide circle of the bay into a crimson lake for a few seconds. There was a moment's pause, and then the crash of an explosion hammered against their ears. A fountain of spray leaped up and fell back like a shower of glittering gems under the rays of the searchlight, while from the centre of the turmoil a rush of waves spread out in ever-widening circles. Both boat and man had disappeared!
"Who was it, sir?" asked Tinker of the detective, in an awe-stricken whisper.
"The name of the man was Ivan Kirilka," replied Sexton Blake. "He was one of the gang, but that is all I know about him."
A Deserter—The Bay of Galita—Torpedo Practice.
SEXTON BLAKE did not consider it necessary to reveal his identity to the military officers before whom he was taken to give an account of the mysterious affair which had resulted in the death of one of the conspirators, the severe wounding of a sentry, and injuries to Lieutenant Mountford, which kept him in the naval hospital for a couple of weeks.
He contented himself with stating that he was an able seaman on board the Durham, and that Tinker was a boy on the same vessel, and that he had overheard the details of the plot in a wine shop in the North Town.
"There was no time to give proper warning to the authorities," he concluded; "and it is quite possible that my story would not have been believed had I done so. I managed to trap one of the miscreants, and secured his revolver, which I gave to the boy. I obtained another revolver for myself, and then we set off for the King's bastion. As you know, gentlemen, we only just arrived there in time. The shell is unfortunately destroyed, and I suppose that Lieutenant Mountford will have to do all his work over again, but it was better than that it should fall into the hands of some foreign power."
The officers were naturally lavish with their praise of his and Tinker's conduct, but as they were not naval officers they could not, of course, promise promotion to a bluejacket. They did, however, promise that a full report of their gallant conduct should be sent to the admiral. They would have been very much surprised to learn how little " Jack Sexton, A.B.," cared whether they sent the report or not.
"By the way," exclaimed a somewhat pompous major of artillery, who, having a great idea of his own importance, considered that naval men were made a great deal too much of, "how comes it that you are dressed in this remarkable costume? And with your face disguised, too, and a false moustache on. It is very extraordinary. It is not the custom, I imagine, for seamen of his Majesty's Navy to go about in any clothes they choose, although they get up to many objectionable antics sometimes."
"I had my reasons, sir, for dressing myself in the costume of a Spanish fisherman," replied Sexton Blake.
"So I presume," snapped the major; "but I want to know those reasons. To my mind the whole affair is very suspicious."
"I must refer you to my commanding officer, Captain Howard, of the Durham, sir, for any further information on the subject of my disguise," said Blake. "I can only remark that but for the fact that I was disguised, the affair of the King's bastion might have had a very different ending."
This answer, quietly and respectfully delivered, had the effect of making the major very angry, but was heard by the other officers present with secret delight, for the pompous major was by no means a favourite.
"You are insolent," he exclaimed. "I shall make it my business to report——"
"Whatever report is made must go through me," interrupted a colonel of infantry, "as I am the senior officer present. That will do, Sexton; you may go."
Blake saluted, for he had to be very careful never to forget the part that he was playing, and quitted the room. There being nothing else to keep him on shore now, he made his way to Manasseh Bardellai's shop to change back into his uniform.
But he had some difficulty in gaining an entrance, for the Jew was not there. No doubt he meant to make himself scarce until Blake was clear of Gibraltar, for he must have known that he had found out his treachery.
However, the door was eventually opened by an ill-favoured old woman. The detective obtained his own clothes, and returned on board the Durham in a shore boat.
Of his interview with Captain Howard there is no need to give a detailed account. Blake had managed to frustrate one of the most dangerous and determined plots of the band of International spies, but the detective had a shrewd suspicion that Hammerlein intended to make another attempt to learn the secret of the new Whitehead torpedo. He therefore decided to remain on board the Durham.
"John Smith," stoker, was marked off on the ship's books as having deserted, and he was never again heard of in the British Navy. But as Carl Hammerlein he was by no means done with.
Both Sexton Blake and Tinker were the heroes of the day on board the Durham, and their shipmates were very proud of them. Tinker was, of course, too young to receive promotion, but speedy promotion was prophesied for Blake, very much to his amusement. However, he did receive promotion, to the rank of chief petty-officer, and it was really a boon to him, for he now had the privilege of going on shore more often, without exciting remark. Evidently he could not have gone on having a sick relative in each port.
"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Mark Kingsley. "If they hadn't have promoted you I'd have said that merit don't count in the service, and that's what no man has ever been able to say of the British Navy. There isn't a man aboard but what is glad that you have received promotion.. There is only one thing in connection with it that makes me sorry."
"What is that?" asked Blake.
"Why, we shall lose you from No. 17 mess, and a better messmate none of us ever wish for."
"I shall never forget my old messmates of No. 17," replied Blake, "and before we sail I mean to stand the mess a dinner on shore to celebrate the occasion."
He kept his word, and that famous dinner is still talked about by the bluejackets who were fortunate enough to be among Jack Sexton's guests.
A few evenings later word was passed round the lower deck that the Durham was to sail early on the following morning for an unknown destination. Speculation was rife as to where she was bound, and hopes were loudly expressed that England was on the eve of a " dust-up" with a certain Continental power, with whom relations had been rather strained of late.
Steam was on the engines by four o'clock in the morning, and at half-past five the shrill whistles of the bo's'un's mates piped " Both watches fall in."
Bluejackets and marines dropped their empty basins, after having finished their cocoa, and ran on deck. The different sub-divisions of men went to their various stations, and then the signal was given to weigh anchor.
Away the steam capstan spun round at a tremendous rate, and the huge chain cable came rattling in as though it was no heavier than a piece of spun yarn.
"Anchor a-weigh, sir!"
"Very good," replied the captain. "Heave it right up, and stow it." There was a few moments' pause. "Slow ahead."
The engine-room telegraph clanged out its signal, and the propellers began to throb the water. With majestic grace the splendid cruiser curved round in answer to her helm, until her head was pointed straight out to sea.
"Half speed! Full speed!"
The Rock was shrouded in a veil of mist, as it often is during the early hours of the morning. But the waters of the bay sparkled in the rays of the newly-risen sun, Carnero Point was passed, and then Point Frayle. The Durham was in the Straits, heading to the south-west. The Rock, still shrouded in grey mist, faded out of sight astern. The course was altered again to south by west, and away went the gallant cruiser, breasting the surges of the blue Atlantic.
Thirty-six hours later she reached her destination—Galita Bay, on the west coast of northern Africa. It was a wild and desolate-looking place, with not the slightest sign of human life anywhere in the neighbourhood,
"Cheerful spot this," observed the gunner to Blake, after the ship had been brought to an anchor. "I don't think that any liberty men will be likely to overstay their leave here. But they couldn't have found a better place for the purpose that has brought us here."
"What purpose is that?" asked Blake, who knew already, but didn't want it to be supposed that he was better acquainted with the instructions which the captain had received than the majority of the officers of the ship.
"Torpedo and big-gun practice generally," replied the gunner, "and to put the new Whitehead torpedo to the test in particular. This is an age of inventions, particularly so far as weapons and missiles of destruction are concerned. And, as a consequence, the spies of all the European powers are hanging round our naval ports like flies round sugar casks. They must be dirty scoundrels who take up that kind of job."
"They are, as a rule," said Blake.
"Well, if I had my way, any spy that was caught should be tried by drumhead court-martial and shot, no matter whether we were at peace or at war."
"I can imagine, under certain circumstances, that to try and gain a knowledge of an enemy's secrets must possess a fascination for some men," replied the detective—" the fascination which a dangerous pursuit must always have for daring and reckless men."
"It may be," admitted the gunner reluctantly. "Anyhow, we're not likely to see any of the gentry in Galita Bay."
A description of big-gun practice at movable targets, and the ordinary torpedo firing practice from the submerged tubes need not be given here. It was carried out on the Durham in the same manner as on other cruisers in the British Navy. But for the test of the new torpedo it was a different matter.
For this work an obsolete gunboat had been towed down to Galita Bay by a destroyer, and anchored there. Which done, the destroyer sped away north again, for it was assumed that there would not be much left of the old gunboat by the time the tests were concluded.
During the first day the trials were merely for testing the speed and effective range of the new torpedo, A floating canvas target only was used, and a dummy head instead of an explosive one screwed on to the projectile.
A few bluejackets were stationed on the Swallow, the old gunboat, to look after the target, and to pick up and tow back the torpedo after it had been fired. Sexton Blake was the petty officer in charge of this party.
The detective regarded this in the light of a holiday, and although he would have liked to get ahead a little faster with his investigations, he realised that in a naval case, where it was necessary for him to spend the greater part of his time on board a ship, he would have to adopt a policy of " masterly inactivity," when he could not do otherwise.
When the afternoon's work was over, the torpedo was hoisted aboard the Swallow, as Sexton Blake and his little party were to remain on board the hulk for the night.
The mercury in the barometer was falling rapidly, and it did not need a gift of prophecy to foretell that a spell of bad weather was coming.
It came that night, with the suddenness that a gale of wind sometimes springs up in that quarter of the world. The sun had set in a curious-looking brown haze, which distorted its shape in a most remarkable manner. The sky overhead was leaden-hued, and the sea had an oily calmness that old sailors knew only too well the meaning of. There was not a breath of air stirring, and the atmosphere was stifling and oppressive.
"We're in for something choice in the way of bad weather," exclaimed Jimmy Wharton, for that young seaman, who had befriended Tinker in Portsmouth Harbour, was one of the party with Blake on board the Swallow. "I wish those other fellows would hurry back; they've been an ever-lasting time gone. They won't be able to get off to us if they aren't slippy. The wind has got a nasty habit on this coast of rising with a sudden jerk, and you find yourself in the thick of a gale before you know where you are."
Blake was standing on the forecastle-head looking through a telescope towards a part of the beach where the pinnace was drawn up clear of the water. He had sent four of the men on shore during the afternoon to gather a supply of cocoanuts and bananas, which appeared to be plentiful enough a little way inland; but they appeared to have wandered away for some distance, for he could see nothing of them. It may have been that they had got into the jungle and lost themselves, in which case their position would be far from an enviable one.
"They must have observed the change in the appearance of the sky," said Blake. "Well, I hope they have not dropped in for anything more than a night-on-shore during a storm, with the only shelter the unsafe one of the woods.
"With them away it makes it bad for us," observed Jimmy Wharton. "There's only you, I, and Sullivan on board, and we've just got to hang on in this old hooker. They've got steam up on board the Durham, and if it comes to the worst all they would have to do would be to pull up the 'mud-hook ' and steam out to sea."
Sexton Blake had shut up his telescope, and was now staring away to the northward with something of anxiety in his look. He scarcely paid any heed to what the young seaman was saying. His eyes were fixed on the northern horizon, where a white blankness of vapour was bearing right down upon them with a long and heavy swell rolling out of it. The sky was now dark with clouds, that had appeared with almost magical swiftness, and no man could have said whence they had come.
"The pinnace won't get off to-night!" exclaimed Blake. "Look out! We're in for it now!"
As the words left his lips, the wind, with a long, fierce howl, swept over the deck of the gunboat, and a moment later a thick, grey mist was swirling all around them. In a breath the cruiser, the shore, and the ocean—except for about a couple of fathoms all round the ship—had vanished, and there was nothing to see but the grey blankness which had come upon them as suddenly as a burst of steam.
"We shall have to hang on by our eyebrows and wait until this gale has blown itself out," said Jimmy Wharton, as he cut up some tobacco from a plug. "It's a good job the pinnace hadn't started, for she'd never have reached the ship."
The wind increased with considerable rapidity, and the sea, which had been quite smooth so short a time before, had now risen to such an extent that the Swallow was pitching, rolling, and straining at her anchor, as though she had been no more than the merest cockleshell of a boat, dancing to the cross seas outside a harbour bar.
The night was as dark as pitch. The white foam on the crests of the waves showed with a ghastly glimmer as they surged up against the vessel's sides; and the gale howled through the gaunt and dripping rigging with the most dismal and melancholy shrieks, as though the spirits of the air were wailing in agony.
"Musha, what a noise!" exclaimed Sullivan, an Irishman, and an A.B. of the best type. "There's no slape for us this noight. An' how the ould craft jumps about. It's say-sick I'll be, av she kapes up this dance very long."
"I'm thankful that the wind is blowing straight down the coast," said Blake, "and not on to the land. The cable will never hold if she jerks at it all night in this fashion, and had we been off a lee-shore there would have been small enough chance for us."
Sexton Blake's fears were verified about an hour later. He was seated in the chart-room, drinking a cup of hot coffee and eating a biscuit, which served as his supper, when a shout from Jimmy Wharton caused him to rush out on to the bridge.
"What is wrong, Jimmy?" he called out.
"We are adrift!' roared the young seaman in reply.
"The cable has parted at the thirty-fathom shackle, and the end of it is hanging out of the hawse-pipe."
Blake and Sullivan at once joined Wharton on the forecastle-head, where it needed but one glance over the bows to assure them that what he said was true. The Swallow was adrift. And she was not provided with a second anchor, for as she had merely been brought to Galita Bay to be used as a target for torpedo practice, all gear that was not likely to be made use of had been removed out of her.
No one had foreseen that before she had served her purpose a terrific gale of wind would suddenly spring up, against which only one anchor was powerless to hold her.
"This is a nice go, and no mistake!" exclaimed Jimmy Wharton. "We're as helpless as three kittens adrift on a plank."
"Not quite so bad as that, I hope," said Blake.
"What can we do?" Wharton demanded. "They can't render us any assistance from the cruiser, because they can't see us on account of the mist. We have no means of signalling to them because all the guns have been taken off this old craft. We can't get up steam because the engines are partially dismantled; and we can't set sail because whatever sails the Swallow possessed have long ago been taken out of her."
"Arrah now!" exclaimed Sullivan. "Ye've towld us a lot av what we can't do. Get on the other tack an' tell us what we can do; just to aise our moinds."
Jimmy Wharton grinned, for he well knew that Sullivan was a smart seaman, whom he could not teach anything to in the way of handling a vessel that was in difficulties.
"We can hang on, and hope," replied Jimmy Wharton.
"That seems aisy, returned Sullivan, "What'll we hope?"
"Hope that there are no rocks in our way," said Jimmy. "For if there are it will be precious awkward for us."
"So long as we have a clear sea we sha'n't come to much harm, provided we take certain measures of precaution," put in Sexton Blake. "We can do more than hang on and hope, as Jimmy Wharton puts it; we can rig a sea anchor, and the drag of the anchor will prevent the ship from drifting so fast with the wind."
"Bedad, ye're roight, Sexton!" exclaimed Sullivan. "I ought to have thought of that meself; but afther spinding a year on Whale Island at gunnery, and a couple of years on a battleship, that happened to be most of her toime in harbour, a man is apt to get a bit rusty in his seamanship."
The three of them now busied themselves in getting the materials necessary for making the sea-anchor. First, three light but strong spars were obtained, as nearly as possible of equal length—about ten feet each—and lashed together in the form of a triangle. Secondly, a stout tarpaulin was fastened over this triangle of spars, and then a separate rope was made fast to each of the three points. Then the base of the triangle was weighted with iron, so that it would float rather more than three-parts submerged.
When all was ready it was dropped over the bows, and the three ropes slacked out until the triangle was about thirty fathoms away from the ship, when the ropes were made fast. The " anchor " then rode upright in the water, almost submerged, and the Swallow rode to it head to sea far more easily than she would have ridden to an ordinary anchor dropped in the usual way.
Of course, there was a certain amount of drift, but not a great deal, and it was quite impossible now for the vessel to swing round into the trough of the sea, which was a danger they could not have averted without the sea-anchor, and without sail or engines as a motive power.
When the anchor was required to be hauled in, the rope attached to the apex of the triangle was let go, the anchor would then fall flat upon the water, and it could be dragged over the surface of the sea and on board without any difficulty.
There was nothing more now to be done, except to keep a bright look-out, and one man was enough for this. So they took three hours apiece at this duty, one being on watch while the other two slept. Thus the long night passed away, and by sunrise the next morning the wind had died down until it was almost calm, and the heavy sea was fast subsiding into a long, regular swell, with smooth sides and rounded tops, though with considerable weight in it where there was anything to check its progress.
Land was in sight to the east—a low, sandy shore, with a range of mountains in the background; and showing like a dirty smudge against the shore was a trail of smoke from the funnel of a steamer.
"Vessel on the starboard beam!" roared out Jimmy Wharton, who had gone up into the foretop to have a look round.
"I can see her funnel and masts," replied Blake, from the bridge. "She is not the Durham, that's certain."
"No," returned Wharton, "I don't see a sign of the cruiser anywhere."
"What do you make of this vessel?"
"Looks to me like a small steam-yacht. She is heading this way now. Perhaps she thinks she has got a salvage job on."
"I sha'n't ask for assistance, now that we have got through the worst of the bad weather unharmed," said Blake. "I wish we hadn't got this new torpedo on board, though. However, the cruiser will have started to hunt for us by this time, and as she is certain to run down the coast to the southward she won't be long in finding us."
The steam-yacht, which appeared to be a vessel of about a hundred tons burthen, was approaching them rapidly, cutting through the water with the snow-white foam that broke under her bows sparkling in the sunshine as though sown with diamonds.
"Faith, she can travel!" exclaimed Sullivan.
She was certainly going at a tremendous speed for so small a vessel, and Blake watched her with a growing feeling of uneasiness.
It was not usual to find a pleasure yacht in that part of the ocean, and she was far too small even for a coasting steamer.
So far as he could make out, there was only one person on deck, and that was the man at the wheel. Suddenly, when she had approached to within a quarter of a mile, a flag was hoisted to the truck of her slim pole mainmast.
It fluttered out to the breeze. A white flag with three black balls in the upper corner of the "fly." The sign of the International Band of Spies!
"Bedad, that's a quare flag, anyhow!" said Sullivan. "What nation will that belong to?"
"No nation in particular," replied Blake; "but the men on board that craft are our deadly enemies nevertheless."
As the steam-yacht rounded to within a cable's length of the Swallow four men emerged from her cabin on to the deck. Sexton Blake recognised three of them. They were Carl Hammerlein, Pedro Sala, and Dirk Hatteras. It was Carl Hammerlein who hailed the Swallow.
"I thought we should meet again, Mr. Jack Sexton, or whatever your name is!" he called out. "But I hardly expected it would be so soon. That old gunboat is the Swallow, I suppose, that was taken to Galita Bay for torpedo practice. You see, I know all about it. She won't be a prize worth capturing, I suspect; but you will be! Stand by with a rope. I am coming on board!"
"By the sowl of St. Patrick," cried Sullivan, "if that ain't Smith, the cinder-knotter "—a lower-deck term for a stoker—"I'll ate me hat! I mane the fellow that deserted at Gibraltar."
"That is him," replied Blake; "and his name is not Smith, But Hammerlein. He is a foreign spy, and one of a gang of spies that are endeavouring to find out the secrets, not only of the defences of our naval ports, but of every new invention of arms or ammunition. We must prevent them boarding this ship. Get hold of any weapon you can! I have my revolver-"
"If you take my advice, Mr. Jack Sexton, you will not throw away your life by trying to draw your revolver," continued Hammerlein mockingly. "You see, we have a machine-gun on board this vessel, and it is trained directly on you and your companions. It is a very effective weapon, I assure you, although a small one. It shoots straight and pumps out about three hundred bullets a minute. More than enough for our purposes. So you will see the advisability of remaining exactly where you are, and keeping your hands in front of you until I get on board."
There was no help for it. Blake realised that it would simply be insane folly to attempt to resist, for he could see the barrels of the machine-gun protruding through an aperture in the side of the steel deck-house. And to sacrifice his life uselessly would certainly not be the best way to baffle the diabolical schemes of these miscreants.
Held by the Enemy—A Successful
Stratagem—The Capture of the Cobra.
AS he lay on the upper deck of the Swallow, bound hand and foot, Sexton Blake wondered what particular fate Carl Hammerlein and his associates intended to mete out to him.
That they intended to deal with him in a far different manner than they would his two comrades he felt pretty certain. As a point of fact, there was no reason why Sullivan and Wharton should come to any special harm, for the gang of spies were not warring against individual bluejackets in the British Navy.
As a measure of precaution, for their own safety, the spies would probably maroon Sullivan and Wharton on some island where they would be able to exist, but where they might remain for months, or even for years, before they were rescued. A dismal enough prospect certainly, but while life remained there was always hope.
But for Blake himself it would be different. He knew too much about them and their plans, and so long as he was alive he was a menace to them. Moreover, they had already had experience—a very disastrous experience—of his resourcefulness, and they had learnt that although he might be shut up in a very secure place, with someone on guard over him, he could yet manage to escape and turn the tables on his guards.
They had already realised that he was no ordinary bluejacket, but a man of surprising skill and knowledge, who seemed to be devoting all his time and energies to hunting them down. Indeed, Hammerlein had a shrewd suspicion as to his real identity, and meant to find out for certain who and what he was.
On account of all these things, which the detective could not disguise from himself, it seemed very clear to him that his opponents would not be satisfied with anything less than his death.
While these unpleasant ruminations were passing through his mind, Hammerlein and Dirk Hatteras came along the deck and stood over him.
"So we have turned the tables on you—and, incidentally, the British Naval authorities—at last, my enterprising friend," said Hammerlein, with malignant triumph. "You gave us the slip at Gibraltar, and also spoilt one of the best-laid of our plans there, but we shall take care that you don't give us the slip this time."
"Ah, I suppose you are afraid of me!" replied Sexton Blake sarcastically.
"You are valuing your powers too highly," sneered Carl Hammerlein. "I am not afraid of any man. But I am ready to admit that you are dangerous, and that is one reason why we can't permit you to live. Another reason is that you have caused the death of one of our comrades, Ivan Kirilka."
"He brought about his own death," said Blake.
"We prefer to believe otherwise," replied Hammerlein.
"You have caused his death, and you will have to pay the penalty."
"I have also a score to settle with you," put in Dirk Hatteras, "which may be added to the general account against you."
"Really, it will be quite a big total by the time you have finished," said Blake coolly. "But what about my two comrades? What have you done with them? You at least have no score to settle with them, I suppose?"
"We have not yet decided upon their fate," replied Hatteras. "For the present it will be sufficient to lock them up where they can do no harm."
At this moment Pedro Sala joined his two associates.
"By the saints," he cried, "I find we have made a far more important capture than we at first imagined! That torpedo that is on the deck covered up with tarpaulins is not an ordinary torpedo. It is the new one—the most recent invention——"
"What!" exclaimed Hammerlein. "The one that we have come down to this coast especially to find out all about?"
"You have hit it, amigo."
"Himmel, this is a big coup, if you like! We will put it on board the Cobra as soon as we have towed this old hulk to that quiet little inlet that we know of. It will be worth a small fortune to us. Russia ought to make the highest bid."
"It would be thrown away," commented Dirk Hatteras. "Russia has no torpedo-gunners who are worthy of the name."
"Well, that is not a matter which need concern us. So long as we get our price for it, that is all we need care about."
"You seem to be counting your chickens before they are hatched,' observed Blake drily.
"Oh, they will be hatched right enough," Hammerlein replied. "My only regret is that you won't be alive to be a witness of our success. It will be complete, I can assure you."
Pedro Sala had been peering into the detective's face with a new and amazed interest. Then all at once he straightened himself up, and gave vent to an exclamation that caused the others to turn their eyes upon him wonderingly.
"Caramba, to think that none of us found this out before!" he cried. "Amigos! Our luck has changed for the good with a vengeance. Do you know who this man is?"
"I know him as Jack Sexton, a seaman of the Durham," replied Hammerlein, "but I have suspected for some time that that only masks another identity. Who is he?"
"Sexton Blake, the famous detective!"
"Der Teufel!"
The German hissed the words out between his teeth in a manner that suggested the most unbounded and fiendish satisfaction.
"Fortune has favoured us this morning," he went on, "and it is a good omen for our future success. . . Sexton Blake! Many things are accounted for now that puzzled me at the time. So the British Government have put him on our track! Come, we have scored a double victory this day, comrades, and we must celebrate it with a bottle of champagne. The occasion justifies it, although our stock of wines is running rather low."
"Well, now that you know who I am," said Blake, "what do you intend to do with me? I have a not unnatural curiosity regarding my own fate. Do you intend to murder me?"
"That is not the term to use. We propose to kill you."
"How? By shooting me while I am lying here helpless?"
Hammerlein carefully lighted a cigarette, and the blue smoke ascended into the fresh morning air. Then he laughed — a decidedly unpleasant laugh to listen to.
"I have thought of a far more interesting method of putting an end to your existence," he said.
The Cobra——that was the name of the powerful steam yacht owned by the international spies—had taken the Swallow in tow, and during the whole of that day she was steaming steadily towards the south.
Sexton Blake had been left on the upper deck with wrists and ankles bound, exposed to the fierce rays of the sun through all the noonday heat. He suffered intensely, and relief only came to his sufferings when the afternoon was waning and the sun had sank low in the cloudless sky. Then a refreshing breeze sprang up, which greatly revived him.
He had not been left entirely without food or drink. Twice during the day some biscuits and water had been given him, and he was glad enough of this frugal fare. He ate up every scrap of biscuit, and drank every drop of water, for, poor as the food was, it served to keep up his strength.
For he had by no means given up hope because he was now in the power of his relentless foes. A plan of escape from their clutches was already growing in the back of his mind, and, given certain conditions, there was some prospect of it being successful. But it was not properly matured yet.
He had not seen anything of his two companions, Sullivan and Jimmy Wharton; but from what he had heard he gathered that they had been locked up in the forecastle. Whether they were bound hand and foot in the same manner that he was he had no means of finding out.
Soon after nightfall the two vessels entered a land-locked inlet of a rocky island, which lay quite out of the ordinary track of ships, off the African coast.
The Cobra came to an anchor, but the Swallow was allowed to drift until she grounded on the beach.
The night was fine, and the cloudless sky was studded thickly with brilliant stars. Their light filled the atmosphere with a soft radiance in which all objects were clearly visible, though taking on a mystic, unreal look at a short distance away.
Hammerlein and his associates set to work at once to transfer the torpedo, which was such a valuable prize, from the old gunboat to the Cobra; and for the time being Sexton Blake was forgotten. Or, if not forgotten, they were at least too busy to pay any attention to him. They considered that he was safe enough, for his arms and legs were securely bound; and as he had not had a guard over him during the day, they did not place one over him now.
As the Cobra had no winch or crane-on board by which the torpedo could be hoisted up on to her deck been lowered into the water and floated over to her, it needed every man of the band of miscreants to hoist the heavy projectile on to the yacht by means of hand tackles.
Thus, for the time being, the Swallow was deserted by them, and Sexton Blake took advantage of their temporary absence to put his plan into execution.
He was lying at the after end of the deck, and he wanted to get for'ard in order to communicate with Sullivan and Jimmy Wharton. There was nothing for it but to roll the whole length of the deck, and this he did.
"Wharton—Sullivan!" he called out. "Are you in the forecastle?"
"Is that you, Misther Sexton?" came the reply—in the form of a question—in the Irishman's familiar tones.
"It is me, sure enough," said Blake. "How are you off for ropes?"
"They fastened us up before they wint away," answered Sullivan, "Up till thin they'd been content wid locking us in."
"Can you move about? I mean, you are not secured to a stanchion, or ringbolt, that would prevent you shifting your position?"
"No. We can rowl about."
"Good. Now, there is a small open port just above me, where I am now lying. I want you to keep clear of it."
"We are not near it," said Jimmy Wharton. "It has been left open for ventilating purposes. I wonder they have been considerate."
Sexton Blake had been keeping his eyes very wide open indeed, with the result that he had discovered a small, keen-edged axe lying on the deck, having been brought on board by Hatteras for some purpose, and this he proceeded to take possession of.
As he could neither use his hands nor feet, he had to take hold of the handle of the axe between his teeth. Then, with some difficulty, because of the lashings round his ankles, he rose to his feet. His face was just level with the circular port, and, having contrived to rest the blade of the axe on the rim, he dropped it inside.
"There is something for you to cut your bonds with," he called out. "You'll find it a bit awkward to use, as you will have to grip hold of it with your teeth. But it is sharp."
"We'll manage all right," exclaimed Jimmy Wharton. "My teeth are fairly strong!"
Nothing more was said for about ten minutes, and then Blake heard an exclamation of satisfaction from Sullivan's lips.
"We've done it!" he cried. "Hurroo! My hands are free. Give me hould av the weapon, an' we'll soon have the rest av the lashings off now!"
In another three minutes this was accomplished, and then Sullivan's round, genial face appeared at the open port.
"Bedad! I can't squeeze myself through here," he said. "There's only just room enough for my head to go through."
"That's all right," replied Blake. "If you can put your head through, you can put your arm through. As I am standing, you can reach down as far as my wrists with the blade of the axe, and cut the rope which is bound round them."
"I can do that," returned Sullivan.
The unfortunate part of it was that when Sullivan's arm was through the port-hole there was no room for his head, so he could not see what he was doing, In consequence of this, Blake got two or three nasty cuts on his hands and wrists before the rope was severed. At length, however, he felt the last strand give way, and his arms were free. It was the work of a few moments to cut the lashings round his ankles; and then, after having chafed his joints to restore the circulation, he set to work to free his companions from durance vile in the forecastle.
The door was not only locked, but there was also a heavy bar across it on the outside. The bar was easily removed, but, as there was no key, Blake had to cut the lock out of the woodwork with his axe.
He worked with a will, and the wood chips flew in every direction. Indeed, so engrossed was he with his task that he did not observe a dinghy putting off from the Cobra, with one man in it, who sculled hard towards the Swallow.
It is very certain that the solitary rower had not, on his part, observed that Blake was free, or he would not have come over alone. The detective had paused for a moment in his labours. as the dinghy grated alongside. He heard the sound, and crossed the deck to see what it was. As he reached the bulwarks, Pedro Sala's head was popped over the rail.
The fellow was so astonished at what he saw that for a couple of seconds he could do nothing but stare. But the detective acted with characteristic promptitude, and gripping Sala by the throat and arm, dragged him on board.
Then he bumped his head upon the deck to keep him quiet, after which he gagged and securely bound him.
"You deserve to be hung!" he said to him. "But, in any case, you shall have practical experience of what you and your companions have made me suffer when I lay bound and helpless on the deck all day in the full glare of the tropical sun."
A few more blows of his axe at the forecastle door sufficed to send it open with a crash. Sullivan and Wharton came out, and regarded their prisoner with great satisfaction, for they had seen what was happening on the deck without being able to render Blake any assistance.
"What's the next move?" asked Wharton.
"We must capture the Cobra," replied Blake coolly.
"Faith, that'll plaze me entoirely," said Sullivan. "When will we start?"
"We mustn't be in too much of a hurry," laughed Sexton Blake, "or we shall cripple our little plans. So far as I can make out, there are only six of our opponents, all told, and we have bagged one of them. That leaves five for us to deal with, but we have to recollect that they are armed with rifles and revolvers, while we have only one revolver between us, which I have just taken from this fellow."
He pointed to Pedro Sala.
"We must fight at close quarters, thin," replied Sullivan. "We'll be aiqual to them wid weapons if it comes to hand to hand work. See now, I'll take the axe, an' Jimmy Wharton can make a choice betune that ould cutlass that was hanging in one ov the afther cabins, an' a firebar, which same can do a lot of damage if you know how to use it."
"I prefer the cutlass," said Jimmy.
Owing to the brightness of the stars, it was not possible for the boat to cross the harbour unseen, but Sexton Blake was not to be deterred by any obstacles. The torpedo was now on board the Cobra, and at all hazards the spies must be prevented from carrying it off. The only way to do this with so short a time at their disposal was to capture the steam-yacht by sheer hard fighting, though a certain amount of artifice would have to be used to get the boat alongside before the suspicions were aroused of the men on board the Cobra.
Blake soon hit upon a plan.
To begin with he deprived Pedro Sala of his jacket and sombrero, so that in the distance he might be mistaken for him. Then he brought the dinghy round to the other side of the Swallow, so that Sullivan and Wharton could get into it unseen.
They crouched down in the bottom of the boat and then Blake got out the sculls and started boldly to row over to the yacht.
As it happened there was only one man on the deck of the Cobra, but he was leaning over the rail smoking, and watching the boat as it approached. Possibly he wondered why Sala was returning, for he mistook Blake for his associate as the detective's back was towards him as he rowed; but he did not call out to ask the reason.
He had sharp eyesight, though, and while the boat was still about twenty yards away he saw the two bluejackets crouching down between the thwarts. With a yell of surprise and dismay, he rushed to the companion hatchway to warn his associates.
"The prisoners have escaped!" he shouted. "On deck! Quick! They are alongside!"
The dinghy was rounded to under the starboard bow of the Cobra, and Sexton Blake with his two comrades scrambled up on to the deck. The advantage was with them, for they had taken their foes by surprise; but for a matter of ten minutes a desperate fight raged on the cramped decks of the yacht.
Revolvers were used freely by the spies, and the bullets pattered viciously against the funnel and the sides of the engine-room skylight; but they were in too much of a hurry to take careful aim, and did no serious damage.
Blake only fired one shot from his revolver, and it took effect. The man he had hit spun round sideways, staggered to the gangway, and pitched headlong overboard.
Sullivan and Jimmy Wharton were, in the meantime, doing good work with axe and cutlass, and drove their opponents before them, finally obliging them to leap overboard in order to save their lives.
"The yacht is ours!" cried Jimmy Wharton.
"Go down into the engine-room, you two!" ordered Blake. "There is a good pressure of steam up, so you won't have a great deal to do. One of you go into the stokehold, and the other stand by the starting-gear."
"Ay, ay, sir!"
Blake ran for'ard with a carpenter's maul, and knocked the pin out of the thirty-fathom shackle of the anchor cable.
There was no time to weigh anchor, for Hammerlein and his men, when they had recovered themselves a bit, would still be in a position to hamper them very considerably. So the cable was slipped, and, rattling through the hawespipe, disappeared with a splash into the water.
"Full speed ahead!" shouted out Blake down the engine-room skylight.
"The engines moved, the propeller churned the water up into foam, and the Cobra began to forge swiftly ahead. Blake mounted to the bridge and gripped the wheel, where he had to stand fully exposed to the fire of his enemies.
Three of them had managed to climb into the dinghy, but only two of them had contrived to keep their cartridges dry. There was a crackle of quick, sharp reports, and the bullets came "zip-zipping" in unpleasant proximity to the detective. But he stuck to his post.
Then, as the Cobra gathered speed, the dinghy and its occupants were left far astern, the firing ceased, and Sexton Blake gazed out over the open sea with a deep sigh of relief.
The Disappearance of Hammerlein & Co.—Farewell to the Navy.
IT was not until late the following evening that the Cobra sighted the cruiser Durham, which was steaming close to the African coast, searching for the Swallow, or for what was left of her. For it was generally believed on board the cruiser that the Swallow must have been wrecked in the storm, and it was feared that the lives of the three men on board had been lost.
Great, then, was the surprise and delight of officers and crew of the Durham when they saw Blake and his two companions on board a smart steam-yacht, that seemed capable of holding her own in the matter of speed with the swift warship. And greater still their surprise when they heard their adventures.
Sexton Blake made a full and detailed report of the whole affair to Captain Howard in the privacy of that officer's cabin, and the captain, after a long consultation with the detective, made up his mind to steer at once for the island in the hope that they would be able to capture the gang of spies who were practically stranded there.
A prize-crew was put on board the Cobra, and she was despatched to Gibraltar. Then the Durham steamed at full speed for the island.
Fourteen hours later she was off the mouth of the inlet, and three boats, full of armed men, were sent to search for the spies and capture them.
But the spies had disappeared. The island was not of great extent, and it was not a difficult matter to make a thorough search of it. Traces of Hammerlein and his associates were certainly found on various parts of the beach where they had landed and walked from point to point, but that was all.
The Swallow was in the same position as Blake and his comrades had left her, with her nose on to the shore, and the dinghy was found at the upper end of the inlet; but the men they were after had vanished as completely as though they had dissolved into vapour.
"It is very disappointing, Blake," exclaimed Captain Howard. "I made sure that we should capture those miscreants this time. "It puzzles me to know how they have managed to get away from the island."
"The only theory I can advance," said the detective, "is that they had a large-sized sailing-boat moored in one of the islets with which the island is indented."
"Probably we have seen and heard the last of them," remarked Captain Howard.
"I think we may take that as being certain, captain," said Sexton Blake, with a grim smile. "At least two of the gang have lost the number of their mess, while the rest, supposing them to have got away safely, are not likely to trouble us again. I think they will take care to give the British Navy a wide berth in future, and content themselves with a less dangerous game."
"I feel sure you are right, Mr. Blake," said Captain Howard. "And now, I suppose, we shall have to lose you and that smart boy of yours?"
"I think Tinker and I will take our discharge now," said the detective, with a smile. "It is time we got back to our rooms in Baker Street, where good old Pedro has been waiting for us all this time. On the whole, we have had a very jolly time in the Navy, and we shall both be genuinely sorry to leave the glorious service!"
And the whole ship's company will be genuinely sorry to lose you!" exclaimed Captain Howard warmly.
And the captain of H.M.S Durham and his former petty-officer cemented their friendship with a hearty handshake.
***
Thus ended the great naval case, which added considerably to Sexton Blake's laurels.
Of the rewards which the British Government bestowed upon him, and also upon Tinker, in recognition of their splendid services, there is no need here to speak in detail.
But that which the famous detective and his young assistant value far more are the friendships which they have formed with some of the most sterling of the officers and bluejackets of the Navy.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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