CHAPTER VIII
SPY AND SUPER-SPY
"SHE'S torpedoed, sir!" exclaimed the coxswain as the "Pompey," afterslowly recovering herself again, listed until her main for'ard-deckscuttles were awash.
"Hard-a-starboard!" ordered Tressidar. Then under his breath headded, "And those poor little kids on board."
Slowly the pall of smoke dispersed. Outwardly the cruiser showed nosigns of her injuries. Swarms of seamen were strenuously engaged inlowering a collision-mat over the hole well beneath the water-line.Others were swinging out the boats.
The "Pompey" was doomed: not by the result of a hostile torpedo, butby an internal explosion. Stoker Jorkler's plot had succeeded,although not to the full extent that he had expected. The detonatorhad blown a large hole in the wing-plates, but fortunately theexplosion had not communicated itself to the forward magazine. Had itdone so, the end of the cruiser would have been sudden and complete:not one soul on board would have escaped.
Aft, although the shock of the explosion was distinctly felt, theeffect was at first hardly noticeable. Amongst the visitors there wasnot the slightest trace of panic; in fact, it was with greatdifficulty that the gunroom officers' could prevail upon theiryouthful guests to abandon their play and go on deck. Promptly ordershad been given to flood the magazines, thus preventing further dangerin that direction.
Skilfully the duty boat was brought alongside the stricken cruiser,while almost at the same moment the pulling-boat containing EricGreenwood and the money-bags rounded the ship's stern.
Assisted by brawny arms, the ladies and children were taken down theaccommodation-ladder, the lower platform of which was now three feetunder water, and placed in the boats. With full complements thesteamboat and the one in which the A.P. was on duty pushed off,slowing down when at a safe distance to await developments.
Other assistance was speedily at hand. Since the cruiser's heavyboats could not be hoisted out in time and those in davits wereinsufficient for the officers and crew, it was as well that the"Pompey" was within easy reach of other vessels.
A dozen or more badly injured men were the next to be taken off;then, with the utmost precision and discipline, the rest of the crewgained the boats, but not before the collision-mat party for'ard wereup to their knees in water.
Clouds of steam issued from the boiler- and engine-rooms, while atintervals muffled explosions of compressed air showed that thewater-tight doors, already strained by the explosion, were unable towithstand the terrific pressure of the inflowing sea.
Captain Raxworthy, true to the time-honoured traditions of theservice, was the last to quit the doomed ship. Barely had the boatinto which he had jumped pushed off a dozen lengths when the hugevessel, shivering like a living creature, turned completely on herbeam ends.
For some moments she remained thus, then, heeling still more untilher topmasts touched the bed of the harbour, she disappeared fromsight, with the exception of one end of her navigation-bridge thatstill projected a couple of feet above the surface.
As soon as the men landed they were formed up and mustered bydivisions. The result of the roll-call showed that nineteen men weremissing, and in addition to the dozen seriously injured, thirty menrequired surgical treatment. Amongst those missing was Stoker JamesJorkler.
And when the liberty men returned it was informed that one man had"run." The absentee was reported under the name of Stoker Flanaghan.
In a clump of gaunt pine-trees, halfway up the summit of BenCraich--the loftiest of the hills in the vicinity of AuldhaigFirth--stood the man hitherto known as Rhino Jorkler.
It is hardly necessary to remark that he was not a Canadian-bornBritish subject. He was a German-American, his real name being OttoOberfurst. By profession, previous to the outbreak of war, he was amining-engineer, since then he had been a Secret Service agent in theemploy of the German Government.
At first he was engaged in minor activities, under the direction ofthe notorious Boy Ed, but his zeal so impressed his employer thatbefore long he was entrusted with a desperate mission in the Provinceof Quebec. Succeeding, he was handsomely rewarded out of the hugesums lavished by the German Government upon the questionable SecretService and given an opportunity of transferring his activities toGreat Britain.
Much as he preferred to work single-handed, he was ordered to reporthimself to a certain von Schenck, a director of the Teutonicespionage system that prevails in the United Kingdom.
Von Schenck had been, with the exception of periodical visits toGermany, resident in Great Britain for nearly thirty years. At sixtyhis powers of intellect were undimmed, and since success in espionagedepends more upon wits than upon bodily strength and activity, hisphysical infirmities aided rather than embarrassed his sinister work.
He was of small stature, waxen-featured and grey-haired. He couldspeak English with a fluency that was faultless enough to take himanywhere without arousing suspicion. From other spies' experiences heknew that a precise regard for the intricate rules of English grammarwas frequently a trap. Living unostentatiously in a small house onthe outskirts of Edinburgh, he posed as a retired merchant under theassumed name of Andrew McJeames.
With few exceptions von Schenck knew none of his vast army of spiesby name, nor did they know of his identity. They were merelynumbers--pawns in the great game of espionage played according to therules and regulations of the degenerate Hun. In a few cases, however,the master spy was personally acquainted with his immediatesubordinates, and amongst these was Otto Oberfurst.
It was at von Schenck's instigation that Oberfurst joined the BritishNavy at Portsmouth. He reckoned on the enormous odds of the newlyenlisted stoker being promptly drafted to a vessel in the North Sea.By joining at the Hampshire naval port, less suspicion would belikely to be aroused than if he had entered the service at Rosyth orCromarty.
Von Schenck was a keen motorist. For miles around the Scottishcapital his powerful Merc?d?s car was known. His kindness inplacing himself and his motor at the disposal of a certain militaryhospital was merely a cloak for a twofold purpose. It gave him anexcuse to use the car, in spite of the half-hearted requests from theGovernment backed by a firm appeal from the Royal Automobile Club; italso enabled him to pick up valuable information from the woundedTommies, whose pardonable desire to relate their adventures often ledthem to overrun their discretion. He made a point of never asking aquestion on service matters of his guests. He relied upon his skillin leading up to any particular subject of which he requiredinformation, and sooner or later his wishes were gratified. Withinforty-eight hours the information was in the hands of the GermanAdmiralty.
From his place of concealment Otto Oberfurst sat and waited while thelengthening shadows betokened the approach of another night. Atfrequent intervals he consulted his watch. It was almost identicalwith the one he had left in the double bottom of the "Pompey."
Occasionally he directed his attention to the dark brown ribbon thatmarked the position of the main road leading to Auldhaig, but hisgaze was chiefly concentrated upon the land-locked harbour. The"Pompey," lying on the extreme west of the line of moorings, wasplainly visible. To all outward appearances she looked to be theembodiment of armed security, protected as she was by triple lines ofanti-submarine devices that barred the entrance to the firth. Inaddition to the numerous warships, ranging from large armouredcruisers down to the swift, well-armed craft of the destroyerflotilla, the harbour was protected by four distinct anti-aircraftbatteries armed with the very latest type of guns. The positions ofthese concealed batteries the spy knew with startling accuracy. Healso knew that a short distance inland from Auldhaig, and situated ina remote and naturally sheltered valley, was the important munitionfactory of Sauchieblair. Three times had German aircraft sought todiscover the exact position of these immense works. On the lastoccasion bombs had missed the main cordite factory by two hundredyards; but that was more by good luck than good judgment, for neverin the course of their flight over the Scottish coast had they beenabsolutely certain of
their bearings.
Four o'clock. Otto Oberfurst, his hands shaking in spite of hisstrong nerve, awaited the result of his treacherous handiwork.Ten--twenty--thirty seconds passed, but still no terrific explosionthat would rend the cruiser from stem to stern. A wave of horribleuncertainty swept over him. Perhaps suspicion had been aroused andthe double bottom had been searched; or a flaw in the intricatemechanism of the timing-gear had prevented the deliberatecatastrophe. In either case the failure would be of graveconsequences to the German Secret Service plans. The actual proofthat an attempt had been made to destroy a warship by internalexplosion would make it advisable to discontinue activities in thatdirection. So long as the British attributed similar disasters toaccident, well and good. They could set forth as many theories asthey liked, provided that the real reason was known only to vonSchenck and his associates.
Suddenly Oberfurst's cogitations were interrupted by the sight of acloud of smoke leaping skywards from the cruiser. Four seconds laterthe muffled boom of the explosion was borne to his ears. He could seethe vessel listing, but to his intense disappointment she showed nosigns of being blown to pieces.
"Himmel!" he muttered. "It is not the magazine this time. I must havemiscalculated its position. No matter, another English ship is out ofaction. Better luck next time!"
He waited until the "Pompey" had disappeared from view beneath thewaters of Auldhaig Harbour, then, walking rapidly, he followed amountain path leading away from the town.
Darkness had fallen when he arrived at a small stone cottage situatedin a remote glen. With the ease of a man who was familiar with hissurroundings, Oberfurst climbed the stile in the wall enclosing thegarden, threaded his way along the winding path, and, avoiding aninvisible obstruction in the form of an iron pig-trough, tappedsoftly upon the window-pane.
"Who's there?" inquired a high-pitched voice.
"All right, mother," replied the spy reassuringly.
Without further delay the door was unbarred and Oberfurst entered thecottage.
"I've run," he declared. "Couldn't stick it any longer."
"Eh?" The old woman eyed him sharply. "What's wrong now?"
"Mother" Taggach, the occupier of the cottage, was a shrivelled-upwoman of seventy. She was an illicit distiller of whisky and areceiver of stolen property. The former occupation she plied in thisremote cottage; the latter was carried on in a small shop in theoutskirts of Edinburgh, where her son kept a marine store. Her minoractivities consisted in assisting naval and military deserters,although since the war there was little call for her assistance inthat direction. The few "bad hats" of the fleet at Auldhaig soonfound out that at Mother Taggach's there were facilities for spendingleave with the possibilities of obtaining spirits which, owing to thestringent regulations, were denied them in the town.
Stoker Jorkler was one of her patrons, but Mother Taggach, in spiteof her failings, was a strong anti-German. Not for one moment did shesuspect the true character of the spy.
"Yes," he continued in answer to her questions. "I've run--deserted.Nerves all gone."
"A pretty sailor you make," remarked the old woman witheringly. "Soyou want me to fix you up? It's very risky, you know."
"Very," agreed Oberfurst. "But if I'm nabbed I won't peach. Let'shave a suit of civilian togs and before morning I'll be miles away."
"Five pounds, then," demanded Mother Taggach.
The spy produced the money. The old woman carefully counted andexamined the notes, then from a wooden box she drew a bundle ofclothes.
"There you are," she said. "Get along upstairs. You'd best be clearof my house in less than ten minutes."
Quickly Oberfurst effected the change. Beyond wearing civilian garbhe made no attempt to disguise himself.
"Here's my old gear," he said, handing the woman a bundle containinghis uniform.
"All right, I'll burn them," she remarked. "Though 'tis a waste ofgood stuff. Where might you be making for, might I ask?"
"Wick," he replied. "I've got a pal there."
He went out into the night and walked quickly until he approached thespot where the mountain path struck the highway running parallel withthe east coast. Here he sat down, and from his pocket produced arazor and a piece of soap. In very short time he had shaved the topof his head and his eyebrows, while in place of his smooth chin hesported a greyish beard that would escape detection except undercritical inspection. Then, instead of turning northward--for he haddeliberately misinformed Mother Taggach--he set his face to the southand tramped briskly in the direction of far-distant Edinburgh.