The Cruise of the Dry Dock/The Victoria Cross
CHAPTER XXII
THE VICTORIA CROSS
Shocked, stunned, half blinded, Madden found himself kicking in the water amidst a wreckage of spars, planks, buoys, with here and there a swimmer struggling to stay on the surface. The whole mass of flotsam swung slowly around the whirlpool where tug and submarine had sunk.
The circling water was filmed with oil, the life-blood of the stricken submarine. Presently the concavity in the ocean mounted to level, and its rotation slowly died away. The American found that his arms had unwittingly clasped something which proved to be an empty tin canister with a screw top. He hung to it apathetically. His ears bled from the concussion of the torpedo, and it was with difficulty that he focussed his eyes on anything.
Presently he became aware of a voice calling his name. It seemed a long way off, but when he looked around he saw Farnol Greer quite close to him. The thick-set black-headed fellow motioned for Madden to approach, and the American kicked himself and his float in that direction. A little later he saw that Malone was with Farnol, and that the two were supporting a third man.
“Lend us a 'and, 'ere, Madden,” called Malone; “our chap's knocked out.”
“Who is it? Oh, it's Caradoc!” Madden stared down into the still, upturned face with a dull emotionless feeling. He was too numb to feel or sympathize. “Is he dead?” he finally asked.
“Wounded, sir,” replied Greer.
At that moment, the Englishman moved slightly, opened his eyes. “We—stopped it, Madden.”
“Are you badly hurt?” inquired the American, becoming more nearly normal himself.
“Punch through my shoulder.”
“Were you hit in the explosion?”
“One of the Panther's machine guns—ricocheted, I think.”
“What rotten luck!” growled Madden.
Smith reached his good arm to the float. “Had it all my life in little things, Madden, but the Panther—that torpedo——”
“Boat ahoy!” called Farnol Greer suddenly.
Leonard looked about and saw that the Panther had laid to, a good two miles distant, and two of her cutters were coming back to pick up the survivors. A blue-jacket on the sharp bow of the little vessel waved an arm at Farnol's cry, and presently the rescuing party was alongside. Caradoc went up first, then Farnol, Malone and Madden, who automatically clung to his tin canister.
The sailors from the warship were chattering excitedly over the miraculous preservation of the Panther.
“If that tug had been 'arf a second later,” declared one, “she'd 'ave 'ad us, Sniper, sure—to th' port, there, Bobby, there's another chap kickin' in th' water.”
One of the sailors had a roll of bandages, and he now moved over to Caradoc and stooped over the wounded man.
“You're pinked,” he said in a tone of authority. “I'll take a turn o' this linen around your shoulder.” Suddenly he paused as he glanced into the sufferer's face. “Why—why, hit's the Lieut'nant!” he stammered. Then he stood erect and saluted properly. “Would you 'ave a bandage, sir?” he asked in a different one.
Caradoc assented wearily and shifted his shoulder for the band of linen. The fellow must have been a surgeon's helper, for he applied the strip rather dexterously as the cutter steamed about picking up the rest of the Vulcan's crew who had survived the catastrophe.
Half an hour later friendly hands helped the waifs up the Panther's accommodation ladder, where a group of officers and men waited to be of service to the Vulcan's crew.
The deck of the cruiser was torn and blackened from the German fire; here and there were sailors in bandages. Stretchers were placed at the head of the ladder for the tug's wounded.
The crew, of the Panther showed the utmost cordiality and also the utmost curiosity toward their visitors. A dapper young midshipman gripped Madden's hand as he stepped on the broad deck.
“Where did that tug come from?” he inquired at once. “Most extraordinary sight—whole fleet pounding away at a tug—Ponsonby is my name.”
Madden mentioned his own, and several brother officers, seeing that here was an intelligent fellow, gathered about the American. Two or three were introduced with English formality.
“If you are not too bowled over, old chap,” begged a middy named Gridson, “explain to us how a tug ever happened in the middle of the Sargasso in full flight from a hostile fleet.”
Some of the wounded were still coming up from the cutter, as Madden made a beginning of the tug's story. Just then he was interrupted by Ponsonby.
“Pardon, Madden, but who is that chap coming up—Say, Gridson, that isn't—why that's Wentworth!” The middy suddenly dropped his voice. “That's Wentworth or his ghost, fellows—off of a tug!”
Madden looked. Smith was coming on the deck under the solicitous escort of a surgeon.
“That's Caradoc Smith,” said Madden. “He assumed command of the tug when he found out war was declared.”
“Smith was part of his name,” explained Gridson. “Caradoc Smith-Wentworth was the way he signed the register. He's of the Sussex Smith-Wentworths. His brother took the title, you know.”
“Just fancy!” marveled Ponsonby. “Cashiered six months ago, comes back chasing submarines on a tug, a hero, from boot strap to helmet—a bloody hero——”
“Hold there, Ponsonby,” cautioned another officer named Appleby. “The chap may be hurt seriously—you oughtn't to laugh.”
“Just look at the old man shaking his hand!” ejaculated Gridson, as a very erect gray-headed officer came down off the bridge and extended his hand. “You wouldn't think he had cashiered him six months ago.”
“I hope he gets his commission back,” said Ponsonby, “but he will likely lose it again from tippling.”
“I believe he is cured,” said Madden.
Appleby made some reply as the little group moved forward to meet the wounded man. However, the surgeon and three senior officers were walking with him below to the ship's hospital.
It required two full days to get the Panther into shipshape condition, and during that time the entire fleet kept a sharp lookout for the German mother ship, but that huge mysterious vessel had disappeared as utterly as if the Sargasso had swallowed her up.
Perhaps she did destroy herself to prevent capture, or perhaps her sky-blue hue allowed the fleet to sail under her very prow while she remained invisible. No doubt the two German warships which escaped had warned their consort of her danger, and she had sailed for some port in German Africa. At any rate she was never captured or destroyed.
However, on the evening of the third day, the looming red walls of the floating dock appeared on the eastern horizon. It was so huge and vast that even the crew of the battleship burst into a cheer.
Captain Ames of the Panther immediately communicated with the admiralty and arrangements were made to tow the dock to Antigua, where she would be kept as a naval reserve until the end of the war and then allowed to proceed to Buenos Aires.
The British Towing and Shipping Company was repaid for the loss of the Vulcan, and a prize of five hundred thousand dollars distributed among the tug's crew for sinking the submarine. Thus the dreams of wealth aroused by the ill-fated Minnie B were realized in a small way by the dock's crew. No doubt Deschaillon has his frog pond, old Mrs. Galton her plot of flowers, and Hogan a tall hat, a long-tailed coat and a silver-headed cane.
One week after the Battle of the Sargasso, a formal dinner was given in the officers' mess. At this affair two civilians were present, Leonard Madden and Caradoc Smith-Wentworth.
Under the radiance of many electric lights, Caradoc appeared rather weak and bloodless. However, everyone seemed quite cheerful. The talk was naturally of the war. The officers were speculating upon the entrance of Italy and Turkey into the struggle.
Presently Captain Ames touched an electric button and Gaskin, serene, deferential and wearing an added dignity along with his new uniform, entered the cabin with a basket full of ice and bottles on his arm.
When his helpers had cleared the table, the fat fellow moved decorously from diner to diner, announcing each port of call by the subdued pop of a champagne cork muffled in his napkin. Madden shook his head when the solemn fellow bent solicitously over him. “Make mine water, Gaskin,” he requested in an undertone, laying three fingers over his goblet.
The cook changed almost imperceptibly from a straw colored bottle to a glittering carafe of water; then he moved to Caradoc.
The Englishman hesitated a moment, glanced at Madden and said, “Same thing, Gaskin.”
Captain Ames must have observed his action, and showed his silent approval by requesting water for himself. A few moments later the captain arose.
“Gentlemen,” he began in his crisp military voice, “His Majesty, and all England, are greatly pleased at the work of the South Atlantic fleet. In the report of our recent victory, the commander of the Panther had an extremely cogent reason to commend very heartily the action of a former officer of this vessel. To be exact and fair, it was an act upon which the safety of this vessel and her crew depended.”
A little polite applause filled the slight interval in the speech. Caradoc colored somewhat and the captain continued.
“It is pleasant to me to announce that His Majesty, through the Admiralty, has seen fit to reward this act by tendering Caradoc Smith-Wentworth his commission as first lieutenant in His Majesty's navy.”
A real outburst of applause greeted this announcement, but the captain held up his glass and raised his voice for silence.
“And I have the further pleasure to tender to Mr. Smith-Wentworth, at his Majesty, George the Fifth's, express command, the Victoria Cross for conspicuous bravery upon the field of battle.”
“Let us drink his health!” he finished above the congratulatory uproar that broke out on the announcement.
The men held their goblets at arm's length.
“Here's to you, Wentworth!” “To your deserved honor, my boy!” “To your well-earned promotion, Wentworth!” they chorused heartily.
In the lull of drinking, Madden lifted his water to his friend.
“Here's to the remittance man,” he proposed solemnly, “who vanishes to-night and leaves a Man.”
Caradoc's long face was deeply moved as he looked into the eyes of the youth whose life Providence had so intimately entwined with his own. After a moment he responded steadily enough, “With all my heart, Madden. And here's to the land which you taught me how to serve, my country—my home—Old England!”