THE LAST BATTLESHIP

It was nearly midnight, and the battleship Argyll, stripped to bare steel, was drifting with banked fires but a full head of steam, waiting for daybreak to discover the enemy. New things were expected in this coming action. Wireless news had told of the presence of submarines, as yet unproved in war, and before the going down of the sun a high-power telescope on board had brought to view two small moving spots in the distant sky—airships; but whether they were friends or enemies had not been determined. No hammocks were piped that night—men slept at their stations or remained awake and talked; and aft on the superstructure a group of officers off duty discussed the possibilities of future warfare, and the coming place of the battleship under the menace of the bomb-dropping dirigible balloon and the invisible submarine with its deadly torpedo. All had taken part, some with laughter and joking, others with the earnest conviction of serious thought, and the discussion finally had narrowed down to a wordy combat between the

highest and the lowest of the commissioned officers, Mr. Clarkson, the executive officer, and young Mr. Felton, temporarily the torpedo lieutenant. Mr. Felton had become dogmatic in his assertions, which is excusable at sea only in the young.

"But, Mr. Felton," said the executive officer, slowly and earnestly, "have a little common sense. Can't you see that conditions must change, that the battleship, like the steamship, has almost reached the limit of size and development, while the airship and the submarine are in their infancy?"

"But there must be a center, a nucleus of the fleet. How can you preserve the line of battle without such a backbone? Where will you put the admiral?"

"Up in the air, where he can see things?"

"And be seen, too, and shot at."

"Felton, an ordinary gas bag can travel faster than the speediest water craft ever constructed. We cannot hit a destroyer at full speed. How can we hit an airship above us? Gun sights are useless at such elevations, even though guns could be pointed."

"All a matter of mathematics. Design new ones."

"And suppose a few bombs come down on deck, or down the funnels; what'll happen to the boilers?"

"Armor the deck, and do away with funnels. We will soon have internal combustion engines, anyhow."

"And for submarine attack? Armor the bottom, too? Felton, a battleship will cease to be a battleship. With that weight of armor she could only carry the guns of a cruiser without a cruiser's speed."

"But she would still hold the line of battle."

"Until she was further reduced. Then she would not be even a cruiser. Finally she would sacrifice some of her armor—side armor, we'll say, because unnecessary—then, with enemies only above and below, she would lose it all, seal up and dive, or take wings and fly."

"Oh, Mr. Clarkson," said Felton, wearily, "you are a visionary and theorist. The battleship is here, a perfected fighting machine."

"But she cannot grow much better, while the flying machine and the submarine have just begun. Imagine the three types starting together. Which would be chosen?"

"It would depend upon the judgment, experience, and gray matter of the choosers. I"—young Mr. Felton threw out his chest—"would choose the battleship."

"Because you never hit one. There goes eight bells. Turn in, Felton, and sleep it off."

Amid the laughter—for Mr. Felton, as torpedo officer, had not yet scored a hit in his department—of the listening officers, the group dispersed, to stand watch, or sleep, until four hours later, when the striking of eight bells would again bring a change on the watches. It was Felton's turn in, and he went to his berth; but, hot and excited over the discussion, he remained awake, tossing and rolling, and mentally arguing with the impractical "first luff," until one bell had struck, then two, and finally three. Then he dozed off, and was sound asleep when the familiar stroke of the bell again rang in his ears. "Clang-clang, clang-clang."

"Only four bells," he murmured, sinking back for another two hours of sleep. But he had hardly lost consciousness when the gun-room orderly tapped at his door.

"Going into action, sir," he said. "You were called, and I thought you had wakened. All hands are at stations, sir."

Felton sprang out of his berth and dressed hurriedly. Until the enemy was within the "cruising radius" of torpedoes his station was on the bridge with the captain. As he ran along the gun deck he heard through the steel walls of the big ship the faint sound of distant firing, and when he had bounded up the forward companion steps to the main deck he could hear the singing of shells, and see through the inky blackness twinkling points of flame. A crash and a jar of the whole huge fabric told him that one ship of the enemy had the range, and that something had struck somewhere, and penetrated.

There was no time for sight-seeing. The bridge was above him, and the quickest road to it was by way of the turret, from the top of which he could swing himself up. He mounted the iron ladder bolted to the turret, but slipped on the hard steel roof and, with a force that deprived him of breath, was pressed sprawling on his face. But a deafening roar of sound from within the turret told him that the force came from below—from the explosion of a shell and one or more twelve-inch charges, perhaps the whole magazine in the depths. Hardly had his dazed faculties grasped this fact than another was borne in upon him. Gripping tightly the hand-hold of the turret hatch, and choked with gas fumes oozing through the sight holes in the hood, he felt that he was whirling through the air, upward and to port, he and the whole turret roof. As it turned in air he could see for a moment the dim, bulky outline of the ship below; then it faded into darkness, and he was clinging for dear life to that slowly canting disk of armored steel, until, as it assumed a perpendicular, he was holding his

weight with one hand, very curiously, as he then thought, weighing very little. But he partook of the motion of the whole.

Something hard and rigid brushed him on the shoulder, and in a moment he was torn from his support to find himself clutching a smooth, round rod of what seemed to be steel or iron. It was perpendicular, and beyond in the darkness he made out another, and beyond another. Looking down he saw a long, pointed platform or deck, to the edge of which the rods led. He was clinging to the stanchion of an airship, but what kind of an airship he could not determine.

Thankful for life and a whole skin—though bruised and shocked almost into unconsciousness—he slid down the stanchion to the deck, and faced a man in the darkness—a tall man who peered down at his face.

"Hello, who are you, and where'd you come from?" he asked, rather kindly. "How'd you get aboard!"

"I hardly know myself. I hardly know I'm alive. This is an airship, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"My name is Felton, torpedo officer of the battleship Argyll. There was an explosion in the forward turret, and I was on top. I went up with the roof."

"Was that a turret top? I wondered what they were shooting at us."

"It was. I was rifling it. Which side are you on in this mix?"

"The side of the Lord."

The man whistled shrilly, and immediately half a dozen other dark forms materialized out of the dark. They threw themselves upon Felton, choked, pinioned, and bore him down, and before he could speak his protest he found himself bound hand and foot.

"Stay there," said the tall man, who seemed to be the commander, "until we need to expend weights. We did want a little more ballast."

Felton wisely accepted the situation, and remained through the waning night where they had placed him. They had not gagged him, and he was free to roll over and change his position when tired. He lay on what seemed to be a grating, but on turning to look at it, he found that it was the deck of the car, through the slits of which he could see lights below, and the quick gleaming of distant gun fire, but nothing on the black carpet that took form and identity.

In his immediate vicinity, however, objects were becoming faintly visible in the first blink of the morning light that had not yet reached the surface below. He made out the shape, size, and general construction of the craft that carried him. It was not the conventional elongated gas bag, with car and motor, rudder, and screw; nor was it suspended in the air by wings or planes, unless the long, concave roof above, toward the edge of which the stanchions led, performed some such function. Amidships were a vertical and a horizontal steering wheel, aft a noisily buzzing engine, and, behind it in the darkness, presumably, were the screw and rudders that propelled and guided the craft. Symmetrically disposed about the deck were long, steel cylinders that doubtless contained the compressed gas or air that worked the engine, and through and between them all a system of pipes, valves, levers, and indicators, as complicated as the fittings of an engine-room. The tall commander was at the wheel amidships, another man at the engine, and the rest of the crew, seven in all, were scattered

about the deck "keeping lookout," not ahead, but down.

"There she is," said one, suddenly lifting his head. "Ahead, and to port."

"I see her," said the captain, peering down and shifting the wheel.

"You see, young man," he said to Felton, "we had to rise so suddenly to dodge that turret top that we lost sight of her."

"Do you mean to say," answered Felton, cautiously, for he did not yet understand the temper of these men, "that you can dodge anything?"

"We can dodge or outrun a shell, or anything else big enough to see. But it was dark, and we didn't see that turret coming. It almost hit us."

"What is your lifting power, captain?"

"The centrifugal force of the earth—partly, inconvenient in one respect, for we rise at a tangent. We descend by its opposite and balancing force, gravitation, which is more direct."

"How do you tap this centrifugal force?" asked the amazed Felton. "How do you overcome gravitation?"

"Gravitation is only one phase of magnetism. In magnetism, repulsion equals attraction. By reversing our polarity we are repelled from the earth at the speed of a falling body, but, of course, at a tangent."

"It's beyond me," said Felton. "Of course, that tangent would take you westward at the speed of the sun."

"In a succession of jumps—yes."

"But how do you change your polarity?" asked Felton, becoming interested.

"There is your ship down there, nearly beneath us." And the interest was crushed.

Felton looked down. The light was stronger now, and he could dimly see on the surface beneath the indefinite outlines of a battleship toward which the airship was heading. Not a light could be seen on her. Her fires were quiet; not a flare shone from her funnels. Though there was fighting at a distance, this craft was not engaged in it. Slowly, from the lofty point of view, she moved along on a course that crossed the course of the airship, and slowly the latter turned and followed, soon dropping squarely in her wake—if such term may be used—a full half-mile above. The engine now accelerated its speed, increasing its volume of noise; and this noise must have been heard on the battleship. A sudden illumination was seen—like a flash of heat lightning—then came the singing of a projectile, and with it the report of the gun.

"Oh, fudge!" said the captain, gently and pityingly. "Go ahead, boys."

It was now light enough for Felton to examine the faces of these men. To his surprise they were young, almost boyish. They were not in uniform. Their dress and faces were as commonplace as could be found in a factory; only the tall, thin young captain showing in voice and expression the signs of study and thought. He twirled the wheel, manipulated levers and valves within reach, and watched, downward through the slits, the big craft beneath.

The sun was rising in the east, and Felton could make out the details of the ship below—his own ship, with its familiar bridge, turrets, and superstructure, and an enormous, gaping hole forward where once had been the twelve-inch turret. Far to the south and east were other ships, pursued and pursuing, but which was friend and which enemy he could not make out. Warships, like bicycles, had become standardized.

A small, round shot was dropped over, and Felton watched it descend until it disappeared from sight. But soon a scarcely perceptible splash was seen—a little astern and to starboard, and the captain moved the wheel and turned a lever. Another shot, or finder, went down, and this splashed nearer. Then they lifted a pointed shell, vaned like a dynamite projectile, held it poised until the captain gave the word, and dropped it. It went down true as a plummet, and went out of sight. But its effects were soon seen in an uplifting of the quarter-deck close to the stern, and the rising of a cloud of yellow smoke.

"Nothing left of the steering gear," shuddered Felton. "Wonder how many were killed in that—and the other."

A six-inch gun on the superstructure was barking away, and shells still screamed upward, but none came near the airship.

"We'll silence that gun," the commander said, taking out his watch and slightly changing the course and speed. "Stand by."

They poised another shell, and at the word "drop" down it went. The commander pocketed his watch, and said: "Now for the rest of her; after turret next."

Felton heard, but was watching the descent of the shell. It went out of sight like the others, but soon he saw the uplift of deck, the yellow smoke of explosion, and a dismounted gun flying overboard.

"My God, captain!" he exclaimed. "Is this legitimate warfare? What chance has she? She can't hit back. That was the only gun she had with elevated trunnions."

"And she cost about four millions, didn't she?" answered the captain, derisively. "Did you ever hear about the boy who was reproved for clubbing a mule tied to a post? His excuse was that it had no darn business to be a mule. Mine is that you've no darn business to build battleships."

"Well, we may build airships, too," said Felton, helplessly.

He said no more, but watched, while his ship was picked to pieces. The after turret went next, its big guns lifting and falling across each other. It took two shells to do this, though the second may have had aid from the magazine beneath; for the whole turret rose with the explosion. Then the eight-inch turrets, one after the other, shattered to shapeless lumps under that terrible dropping bombardment; then the superstructure, with its inclosed armament of six-inch and smaller guns, received the fire; and when the whole expanse was an uneven tangle of riven plates, twisted rods, smashed boats, and uprooted ventilators, the funnels came in for attention. Three open, ten-foot tubes leading to the vitals, water-tube boilers and steam connections, one after another belched upward a mighty white cloud, and after each uprush of steam the dropping of bombs ceased until the steam had thinned; for in this deadly, leisurely destruction of a battleship, no bombs need be wasted.

There was still the gaping hole where once had been the forward turret, and the commander seemed to be studying this, as Felton, sick at heart and furious with impotent rage, lifted his gaze from the wreck, which, rolling slowly from filled compartments, smoking with inward flame, and covered with crawling dots seeking escape from the inferno beneath, had lately been his refuge and his home—the invincible, impregnable Argyll—queen among battleships.

"I say, there," called the captain to Felton. "What blew up that forward turret? No gun fire can reach a magazine, and it wasn't I that did it."

"How do I know? Perhaps it was something else like you," snapped Felton.

"Do you think," and the commander's face took on an anxious expression, "that it might have been a submarine's torpedo?"

"Find out."

"That's what I'll have to do. We'll go down and see."

One of the men, a big, lumbering fellow with a dull, moon-like face, came up to where Felton lay and kicked him.

"Don't talk like that to the boss," he said.

"D— you!" yelled Felton. "You kick a man bound and down. Loose my hands, if you dare. Loose my hands! I won't need my feet."

"Loose him," called the captain, unconcernedly.

"Give him his way."

The man stooped and unfastened the cord which held Felton's wrists, then, even as he scrambled to his feet, he released his ankles.

"Now, you dog, take it," he growled, launching his fist at the man's face. It landed squarely, and the man went down, bleeding. He arose, but instead of resisting, or making any attempt to strike back, stood placidly in his tracks while the angry man struck him again.

Once more he went down, to rise again and tranquilly face his assailant. Felton hesitated, while his anger cooled a little; this kind of fighting was new to him. But the kick in his ribs flashed into his mind and the anger came back. "Fight! Fight!" he growled, and again knocked the fellow down. This time he put all his strength, and the weight of his body into the blow, with the result that the man reeled aft past the steering gear before he fell. He sat up and turned his swollen, bleeding face toward Felton, but did not rise nor speak.

"You've had enough, I judge," said Felton. "Any one else here who wants to kick me?"

No one answered. They were all looking down, and even the victim joined in the scrutiny. Not one had seemed in any way interested in the fracas.

"Come on. Who's next?" said the puzzled Felton.

"It is against our rules here to fight," said the nearest man, without looking up. "We save our energies for the enemy."

"But it seems within your rules to kick a prisoner," answered Felton in disgust.

"Do you think," asked the captain, raising a troubled face, "that there are any submarine craft around?"

"How do I know?" answered Felton.

"I don't feel easy, at all," said the other, plaintively.

"How the devil," exclaimed Felton, "can a submarine hurt you?"

The captain looked down without answering, and Felton seated himself to cool off, wondering, the while, what particular brand of human nature was embodied in this crew, and half expecting a concerted attempt to bind him again. But nothing of the kind happened; and when his breathing and circulation were normal, he, too, looked down on the spectacle below.

The airship had descended to less than a hundred yards from the sea, and hung poised, not over the floating scrap heap that had once been a battleship, but to starboard. One look was enough for Felton; he saw men writhing among the wreckage, unable to crawl to the rail and end their agony. Smoke was coming from every aperture, and here and there a small tongue of flame shot up, and fell back into the smoke. Nauseated with horror, he closed his eyes, changed his position, and opened them on the placid sea on the other side—away from the Argyll. A smooth, rolling swell pulsed and ebbed along the surface, and it was slightly roughened with ripples; but this did not materially lessen the transparency of the ocean, viewed from a height. Fish were visible, swimming about in the depths, and Felton thought of sharks, waiting for the final plunge of that hot and smoking wreck. Far over, a movement on the surface caught his eye; it was a triangular arrangement of ripples such as is made by the cutwater of a boat moving slowly. The

apex of the triangle pointed toward the Argyll, and it was coming toward her. As it drew near Felton made out the cause, a short length of pole extending about three feet out of water and moved by some power beneath. Then a huge, bulky shape, pointed like a fish, but foreshortened and distorted by reflection—a darker blue on the blue of the sea—appeared to view as the source of the motive power.

"There's a submarine, for you, captain," he called grimly. "See the periscope tube?"

"Where?" yelled the captain, excitedly. "Where is it?"