lieutenant-commander ralph raxworthy, d.s.o., officer commanding h.m. destroyer windrush, leant over the after end of the bridge stanchion-rails to give final instructions to his sub-lieutenant.
"she's the one we want," he shouted, in order to make himself heard above the hiss of escaping steam. "mind how you close her. examine her papers, and if you find anything of the slightest suspicious nature, put her under arrest."
"very good, sir," replied sub-lieutenant allerton, instinctively patting his revolver-holster before dropping into the waiting boat. "shove off for'ard. give way, lads!"
the boat, with the armed boarding-party, was soon speeding through the black water in the direction of the supposed memnon, which lay rolling sluggishly in the full glare of the destroyer's searchlight.
allerton, too, had his suspicions. expecting to find a crowd of curious and perhaps amused seamen peering at the windrush's boat, he was considerably puzzled to see only one man on the tramp's bridge and her deck absolutely deserted.
even as he looked, a flash, followed by a roar, came from the memnon's deck. a cloud of black smoke, its edges tinted with silver and the rays of the searchlight, rose sullenly in the faint breeze.
for some moments allerton was undecided what to do. at first, under the impression that the mysterious vessel had opened fire, he altered helm in order to prevent the boat masking the destroyer's reply. even as he did so, he noticed that the tramp was much lower in the water.
"the blighters have scuttled her, by jove!" he exclaimed. "lay on your oars, lads. we don't want to be carried down with her."
without the faintest doubt, the would-be prize was sinking fast. that was undeniable evidence of her guilt. no law-abiding merchant vessel would voluntarily destroy herself simply because she was about to be boarded by a party from a british man-of-war.
with great rapidity the memnon sank. she did not heel or even roll. she disappeared amid a smother of foam, throwing out a swell that tossed the windrush's boat like a cork. an oval patch of silvery light from the destroyer's searchlight marked the spot where the mysterious vessel had plunged to the bed of st. ives bay.
"give way, lads!" ordered allerton. "we may find some of them in the ditch."
for a quarter of an hour the boat hovered around the spot. there were no signs of survivors—not even of débris. a little oil, floating in iridescent patches, alone marked the place, and even that was drifting sullenly with the weak tidal current.
at dead slow ahead the windrush closed her boat. a mark-buoy and sinker were dropped overboard, the searchlight was switched off and the boat hoisted up and swung inboard.
"good enough," declared the lieutenant-commander as his sub gained the bridge and reported. "we haven't made a capture, worse luck; but we've done the next best thing. we've scuppered this pirate-johnny, whoever he may be. right-o, sub, carry on, please, while i write out my report."
the windrush had that morning left devonport under orders to patrol the coast between hartland and pendeen points. another destroyer was assigned a beat between hartland and worms head, while a third cruised between swansea bay and milford haven. all outward and homeward bound shipping were to be spoken, and, in the event of any suspicion, to be boarded and have the papers examined.
this was in execution of a general admiralty order embracing the whole of the west and south coast of england and the south coast of ireland, but it was hardly expected that the mysterious pirate would be found in the approach to the bristol channel.
it was a piece of sheer good luck that had caused the windrush to intercept the self-styled memnon. had the latter been half an hour or even twenty minutes later in rounding pendeen head, the destroyer would have turned and been on her way back to hartland.
two hours later, the commander-in-chief at devonport was awakened by his secretary.
"they've got her, sir!" exclaimed the latter, brandishing a signal-pad.
"got who?" demanded the still drowsy admiral.
"the pirate, sir; a message has just come through from the windrush."
the commander-in-chief took the pad and read:
"o.c. windrush to c.-in-c., devonport. radio no. 445. have honour to report that at midnight windrush spoke vessel 2 miles w. 6 n. godrevy light. vessel reported herself memnon of bristol. ordered her to close and sent boat to make examination. before boat could board memnon sank, apparently result of internal explosion. no survivors. have marked wreck. in view of bad weather, request permission to return devonport.—
r. raxworthy, lieut.-commdr."
"that looks like business, sir," remarked the secretary. "i suppose she is the same craft that held up the cap hoorn and got a mauling from the surcouf?"
"she hasn't lost much time in going round the land," rejoined the commander-in-chief. "i wonder what in the name of blazes she was doing over this side? all right, symington. transmit the signal to the admiralty, please; and reply to windrush. she's to put into milford haven until the weather moderates. we'll send a dockyard tug and a couple of lighters with a diving party round as soon as practicable. that's all; good-night."
the admiralty report was made public at 4.0 p.m. of the same day, but two hours earlier the london evening papers brought out special editions with double-headed headlines announcing the destruction of the pirate vessel that had commenced to play havoc on the french side of the channel. every newspaper brought out a different account. for the most part, what they lacked in actual detail they made up for by drawing upon their imagination.
one, very wide of the mark, reported that the pirate had been sunk off cherbourg, in action with a french cruiser; another declared that the filibuster had been rammed and sunk by a british light cruiser off beachy head. a third, that the mysterious vessel had been driven ashore in mounts bay and that the crew had been taken prisoners and were already on their way to london. a fourth, much nearer the mark, had contrived to obtain information from st. ives to the effect that the destroyer windrush had sunk the pirate vessel memnon off trevose head. not one in half a dozen separate reports mentioned the important fact that the corsair had sunk herself.
that same afternoon a westerly gale of force ten—or with a velocity of sixty-five miles an hour—was blowing in the english channel and off the north coast of cornwall. at tresco, scilly, the anemometer even registered one hundred and twenty miles. for three days it blew with unabated violence, finally veering to the n.n.w., leaving in its wake a trail of disaster. for nearly a week after, a heavy tumbling sea was sweeping in from the atlantic, rendering investigation of the wreck of the memnon impracticable.
at length the sea moderated sufficiently to enable the dockyard tug and the two lighters to leave plymouth sound. they had not cleared the breakwater more than an hour when the devonport wireless station received the following startling message:
"s.s. broadstone making for falmouth, towing spanish oil-tanker mendez nunez, attacked, pillaged and disabled by vessel, nationality unknown, in lat. 47° 20' n., long. 9° 15' w."
"then there must have been a pair of 'em," exclaimed the commander-in-chief.
"unless the original one got away," suggested his flag-lieutenant.
"what do you mean?" demanded the admiral. "didn't the windrush report her sunk?
"strange things happen at sea, sir," remarked the admiral's secretary.
"but there are limits," rejoined the commander-in-chief. "well, the diving-party will get to work early to-morrow if the weather holds. i'm willing to bet a bottle of '14 champagne to a corona corona that they'll find the wreck of the memnon within three working days."
"done, sir!" replied the secretary promptly. the admiral lost. in calm weather, divers descended and discovered the sinker of the buoy dropped by the windrush. a couple of drifters swept a wide area without encountering any obstruction resembling wreckage. a naval seaplane assisted in the search, but without success. reluctantly the authorities had to admit that the operation was a complete failure. the sunken memnon had vanished as completely as if she had been swallowed up by a fathomless quicksand. but since no quicksand existed in the neighbourhood of st. ives bay, that theory was knocked on the head. remained the question: what had happened to her?
