the appropriate purposes. He looked through the glass to see how close they were to the pier. McGee had done his piloting well; the shadowy underside, fringed with weed, was directly overhead. He found the twin levers controlling the ballast chambers and admitted enough water to take them a fathom down. The lever in the centre, he judged, would start the propeller. It did. The submarine boat moved forward and clear of the pier. He switched on the pumps and they slowly ascended.
CHAPTER 15
Thames water was still pouring off the superstructure of the boat when Cribb thrust open the conning-tower lid and looked out. The early mist had given way to a clear, cloudless morning, the waves catching sunlight at a million shimmering points. Thirty yards to the left, the Imperial bunting fluttered bravely from a canvas awning specially erected on Gravesend pier. A trombone flashed as the band dispersed across the gangway. Red, white and blue streamers wreathed serpentine shapes in the current.
The thousand-yard width of Gravesend Reach was studded with river traffic, dominated in midstream by the gleaming lines of the
Somewhere on this stretch of river were the dynamiters, Cribb was confident. Carse would not forgo the pleasure of witnessing the climax of his plan. They would have been skirting the attendant fleet while the ceremonials took place on the pier, smug in their knowledge of what was under the water. And when their expectation was not realised at the proper time, they would have clenched their teeth and cursed clocks that could not be relied upon. If the machine that had blown up the gazebo had been marginally late in operating, perhaps this identical one was going to be the same. Even as the Royal feet had stepped over the gangway to the launch, the dynamiters must still have watched for what might appropriately be called the upshot of all their plans. And if Cribb was any judge of human nature, they would be lingering on yet, looking for some indication of what had gone wrong.
Well, now they had got it. The emergence of the submarine boat told them for certain that the charge had failed to detonate. Not only that; they knew now that the law was bound to pursue them, for Cribb and Thackeray must have survived. Carse would swing the launch towards Northfleet and race upriver on the best head of steam he could raise. There was a good chance of reaching the house by the river and escaping in a carriage before Cribb could muster a posse to pursue them.
It was going to take time to go about it in the orthodox way, he was forced to admit. A request for reinforcements from Gravesend police station would want some explaining when it came from a man in a submarine boat with no identification whatsoever, claiming to be a police officer. An enlightened duty sergeant might be prepared to be convinced after, say, ten minutes of hard talking, but Cribb could not afford to give the dynamiters such a start.
No. He would finish this as he started it: in style.
There was one dependable way of collecting police reinforcements quickly and without argument. He put down the lid of the conning-tower and switched on the propellers, at the same time turning the wheel to set the submarine boat on a course directly in line with the
A hundred yards from the yacht, he surfaced again, gliding audaciously through the inner circle of vessels in support. Through the glass scuttles he noticed a movement on the
When he surfaced two minutes later, he was gratified to see that his stratagem had worked; he now had an escort of three Thames police launches. He switched the engine to full power.
He sighted the dynamiters about 150 yards ahead, gaining what help they could from the tidal current. He would have spotted them earlier if his visibility had not been impaired by the thickness of the glass he had to peer through. He put up the lid of the conning-tower and stood on the pilot’s seat for a better view. He could see Millar on deck, facing his direction, undoubtedly keeping the others informed of the progress of the pursuers.
Cribb was trying to recognise the others-and reflecting that Rossanna, at any rate, should be encouraged by the reappearance of the submarine boat-when, quite unexpectedly, a voice addressed him.
‘Ahoy there! This is a river patrol of the Metropolitan Police. You are showing no markings. Heave to, and identify yourself.’
The instruction had reached him through a megaphone, held by an officer of Thames Division, wearing the white boater trimmed with blue that was conceded as more appropriate to activities on the river than a regulation helmet.
‘Declare your identity,’ repeated the officer through the hailer.
Lord! This was the very thing he had sought to avoid. It was out of the question to stop, much as one regretted defying another member of the Force.
He waved back in as cordial a manner as he could, pointed meaningfully towards the dynamiters, and put down the hatch. Thames Division’s launches were built for speed, but he doubted whether they could do anything to stop the submarine boat at its present rate of progress, with the Edison-Hopkinson motors running at some 750 revolutions a minute.
Besides, he was gradually reducing the stretch of water between the dynamiters and himself. It was difficult to understand why, because a smaller craft like theirs ought to have moved more quickly through the water. At this rate, he would be level with them before they entered Fiddler’s Reach. Steadily he bore down, with the police launches still in escort and exasperatingly declining to chase the dynamiters.
A hundred yards soon became seventy, and seventy, fifty. Already he could see Carse at the wheel and Devlin beside him. Then the reason why the dynamiters had cut their speed was made clear. Millar, on deck, had levelled a gun at the submarine boat. They had deliberately allowed their pursuers to come within range.
A small puff of smoke was followed immediately by a sharp impact on the side of the conning-tower. It was aimed at the scuttles, and if Cribb took the boat any nearer, the next could not fail to find its mark. He swung the wheel to port and ducked his head low, as a second shot cracked against the plating on his right. Thank God for Siemens-Martin steel!
He heard two more shots discharged, and was comforted by the sound of one making contact harmlessly somewhere to stern, while the other seemed to have missed altogether. This encouraged him to raise his head and check his position in relation to the launch. The dynamiters were now slightly astern of him and fifty yards to starboard. Millar was still poised on deck, gun in hand, looking for a clear line of fire. The police, like Cribb, had swung defensively towards the Kent bank. There was no sign of the man with the megaphone.
What would Carse do now: move in to give Millar a better chance of a shot, or keep the same course, knowing his pursuers would have to stay out of range?
Cribb watched the bows of the launch, ready to react at once to any change of direction. And as he watched, there was an astonishing development.
Rossanna came running from the cabin and leapt into the river. With arms flailing, she struck out towards the submarine boat, her black cloak riding the water like a manta ray. Millar heard the splash, turned, took in what had happened and made rapidly to inform Carse, who shortly appeared on deck. Rossanna was already thirty yards astern, and he did not take long in deciding to abandon her. Cribb saw him shake his head curtly and return to the wheel.
Seconds later, the launch was ripped apart by a massive explosion. Cribb saw the flash and ducked instinctively. Fragments of wood and metal beat like hail on the hull of the submarine boat. Water cascaded across the scuttles, obscuring vision, and the whole vessel keeled dangerously to port, as the shock wave hit them.
