[Illustration: cover]
THE SALVING OF
THE "FUSI YAMA"
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
LIEUT. R.A.F.
------
"No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages
without a quickening of his pulses."--Outlook.
------
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama": A Post-War
Story of the Sea.
Sea Scouts All: How the _Olivette_ was won.
Winning his Wings: A Story of the R.A.F.
The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge: April, 1918.
With Beatty off Jutland: A Romance of the Great Sea
Fight.
The Submarine Hunters: A Story of Naval Patrol Work.
A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand
Rifles on the Western Front.
A Sub and a Submarine: The Story of H.M. Submarine
R19 in the Great War.
Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great
War.
The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British
Motor-cyclists with the Belgian Forces.
The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland.
Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great
War.
The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli
Peninsula.
Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure.
The Quest of the "Golden Hope": A Seventeenth-century
Story of Adventure.
A Lad of Grit: A Story of Restoration Times.
LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: A SUBMARINE DUEL _Frontispiece_
(missing from book)]
THE SALVING OF
THE "FUSI YAMA"
A Post-War Story of the Sea
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
_Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
CHAP.
I. ROCKS AHEAD
II. TO THE RESCUE
III. SIGNING ON
IV. COMRADES ALL
V. THE "FUSI YAMA"
VI. THE YACHT "TITANIA"
VII. SAND-BAGGED
VIII. THE "TITANIA" SAILS
IX. "WHERE AM I?"
X. A CHOICE OF TWO EVILS
XI. VILLIERS' RETURN
XII. PETE AND THE MUTINY
XIII. ADVICE AND BLUFF
XIV. SUNK IN COLLISION
XV. WHAT DID DICK DO?
XVI. THE WRONG ISLAND
XVII. NUA LEHA
XVIII. THE FIRST DAY ON THE ISLAND
XIX. MISSING
XX. UP AND DOWN
XXI. A GOOD NIGHT'S WORK
XXII. VON GIESPERT HEARS NEWS
XXIII. EUREKA!
XXIV. THE HURRICANE
XXV. "KONKED OUT"
XXVI. HARBOROUGH'S RUSE
XXVII. A SUBMARINE DUEL
XXVIII. THE EXPLOSION
XXIX. A FRUSTRATED ESCAPE
XXX. VON GIESPERT'S RESOLVE
XXXI. EXIT THE "ZUG"
XXXII. SETTLING ACCOUNTS
Illustrations
------
A SUBMARINE DUEL _Frontispiece_ (missing from book)
SAND-BAGGED
UNMASKED HE WAS NO LONGER AN AMIABLE SWEDE (missing from book)
THE GERMANS WERE DUMFOUNDED
JACK WAS PINNED PRETTY FIRMLY AGAINST THE CEILING
CLAVERHOUSE STEERS THE SEAPLANE INTO THE LAGOON
THE SALVING OF THE "FUSI YAMA"
CHAPTER I
Rocks Ahead
"And how do you like being out of harness, old top?" inquired Jack
Villiers.
The "old top", otherwise Bobby Beverley, late Sub-Lieutenant of the
Motor Boat Reserve, squared his shoulders and thrust his hands deeply
into the pockets of a well-worn salt-stained monkey-jacket.
"Candidly, dear old thing, I don't like it one little bit," he
replied. "A fish out of water isn't in it."
"I believe that's an undisputed fact," interrupted the other.
"And I jolly well begin to realize it," continued Beverley with
conviction. "There are thousands in the same boat, but that doesn't
alter my position. Fact remains, I see rocks ahead."
"Is that so?" inquired Villiers seriously. "What is it? Short of the
ready?"
Beverley shook his head.
"Not that," he replied, with the confidence that a Service man will
display when discussing financial matters with a brother-officer.
"I've been careful, after a fashion, and there's my gratuity, and a
bit of prize-money when that comes along. Enough to carry on with for
a bit; but, hang it all, what's a fellow to do? I don't like the idea
of taking on a job in an office. When you've been in charge of a crew
for the last three years, you don't like knuckling under and being
bossed; you know what I mean."
"Precisely, old bird," agreed Villiers. "Same here. I'd go off to
Rhodesia like a shot, only I don't know a blessed thing about
farming. I'd go to sea again, but the Mercantile Marine is
chock-a-block with demobbed Royal Naval Reserve men with Board of
Trade certificates and deep-sea experience. That's where we're
bunkered, old boy. But never mind. Something'll turn up. It's a case
of grasping Dame Fortune by the forelock, whatever that is. 'Fraid
the only forelock I'm acquainted with is the forelock of an anchor,
and that's apt to let you down badly if you don't watch it."
The two chums had encountered each other just outside the docks at
Southampton. Both had recently been demobilized from the parent ship
_Hermione,_ Villiers' "M.L." having been paid off a fortnight before
Beverley's craft had gone to lay up indefinitely in the Hamble River.
Jack Villiers was a tall, sparely-built fellow, bronzed, athletic,
and moving with a typically nautical roll that one is bound to
acquire by three years' acquaintance with the open sea. The only son
of a formerly well-to-do Devonshire man, Jack found himself "out of a
berth" with precious few prospects of obtaining employment of
anything approaching a congenial nature. He had gone straight from a
public school into the R.N.V.R and for three years he had risked his
life for his country and had had enough experiences of warfare afloat
to last a lifetime. He knew how to handle men, to take over
responsibility in a tight corner, and generally to steel his nerves
and act promptly in emergencies. He had a roof over his head, albeit
the enamelled roof of the M.L.'s ward-room; good and ample food, a
genial superior officer, and a crew with whom he was undoubtedly
popular. His salary was sufficient for his needs, although it
compared unfavourably with the wages of the average munition-worker
ashore, and generally speaking he had, to quote his own words, "a
top-hole time".
But at the end of the three years it was quite another story. The
prospect of completing his education at a university had vanished.
His second string--a course at an Engineering Training College--had
snapped, His father, hard hit by the war, was no longer in a position
to render financial aid, and it became apparent that Jack Villiers
would have to cut out a line for himself.
The burning question was how? The prospect of a commercial life
appalled him. His utter inexperience of the world was against him,
and it was doubtful whether, during that period of unrest that almost
invariably besets the demobilized man, he could settle to sedentary
work. The call of the sea, the craving for spirited and healthy
adventure, militated against the prospect of a hum-drum life.
Bobby Beverley was in much the same state--possibly worse. He was
additionally hampered by having to provide for his fifteen-year-old
brother Dick, who was at present a boarder in a well-known school
near Salisbury. Bobby's parents were both dead. Mr. Beverley, taking
up a commission in the Army Service Corps, at the age of forty, had
been killed in action somewhere in France. His widow survived him by
but a few months, while Dick had to be maintained out of a scanty
"compassionate allowance ", largely augmented by a considerable
portion of his elder brother's Sub-Lieutenant's pay. And now Bobby
Beverley was faced with two problems: his own future and that of Dick
when the latter left school, which would be at no distant date.
"Let's trot along and have lunch," suggested Villiers. "I know of a
decent little show in the High Street. Dash it all! I remembered in
time," he added, as he replaced his cap after saluting a lady. "Only
just beginning to remember I'm in mufti. Passed Barry's missus this
morning, and, by Jove! I was going to salute Navy fashion when I
recollected I was out of it. Good old times those, George."
"They were," admitted "George" fervently, accepting without demur the
name that for some unaccountable reason is indiscriminately bestowed
upon members of the Senior Service. "We had our sticky times, of
course. Then we groused like the rest of 'em. But that's a back
number. Looking at it retrospectively, it wasn't a bad sort of stunt.
And now there's the future."
"There won't be one for you on this old planet if you aren't more
careful," interrupted Villiers, as he gripped his chum by the arm and
hiked him on to the pavement just in time to escape being run down by
a motor-cyclist. "Bless my soul! It's Alec Claverhouse; and on a
brand-new 1919 jigger, too."
The recognition was mutual, for the motor-cyclist slowed down and
came to a standstill with one foot on the kerb within twenty yards of
the spot where he had all but collided with Bobby Beverley.
From what could be seen of him Alec Claverhouse appeared to be a
tall, burly fellow. Tall he certainly was, but the burliness was
largely deceptive, since he was wearing thick clothing and heavy
motor mackintosh overalls. His forehead was concealed by a golf-cap
pulled well down, while resting upon the peak were a pair of goggles
that were evidently considered by their owner to be necessary
adjuncts to the "doggy" appearance of a "speed merchant".
Claverhouse was an ex-lieutenant of the Royal Air Force--or
Flying-Officer according to the revised and much criticized style of
rank. He had been demobilized for more than five months, and after a
long and wearisome search for a job had taken up a not too lucrative
post at a motor-engineering works, part of his duty being to risk his
neck and those of others of His Majesty's lieges by testing cars and
motor-cycles on the King's highway. Up to the present he had been
fairly fortunate in having his licence endorsed but twice, although
it was a wonder that the fatal third endorsement had not been
recorded. Like a good many other air-pilots Claverhouse, used to
travelling at 120 miles an hour, found that a paltry twenty over the
ground was a mere crawl.
"Cheerio, Beverley, old bird!" he exclaimed boisterously. "Hardly
expected to run up against you. Still in it, I see. And, Villiers,
you dear old thing! so they've chucked you out."
"Both of us," corrected Beverley. "We were discussing the prospects
of hacking our way to fame and prosperity when you nearly settled the
problem for us."
"Always ready to be of assistance," rejoined Claverhouse. "By the by,
seen any of the old Abermurchan crowd lately?"
"Not since last July," replied Beverley. "Villiers and I came south
together when the M.L. base packed up. The Air Station was due to
close down almost immediately, I remember. What are you doing here?"
"Trying to find my feet," was the reply. "In other words, pottering
about in a glorified garage waiting for a snip. I'm thinking of going
abroad."
"That's about as far as we've got," said Villiers.
"But at present we're thinking of having lunch. Come along with us."
"My 'bus," protested Alec.
"Shove it round the back of the show," suggested Villiers. "Get on
with it and then you can reserve a table. We'll be there in less than
five minutes."
Claverhouse fell in with the suggestion and rode off. Arriving at the
restaurant he was fortunate in securing a corner table. Five minutes
passed, but there were no signs of Villiers and Beverley. Ten minutes
passed.
"Wonder if they're acting the giddy goat with me?" he soliloquized as
he carelessly picked up a copy of _The Times_ and began to scan the
Personal Column.
Why he did so he hardly knew. There was little of interest to him in
the long list of appeals for work by demobilized men, though it
roused his sympathy. Somehow it didn't seem right that fellows who
had fought for the country should have to eat out of the hands of the
stay-at-homes who for a dead certainty would have had no home had the
Hun been top-dog.
Half-way down the column he came across an advertisement of a length
and novelty unusual even to the unique Agony Column of _The Times_.
Its audacity held him until he became aware of the arrival of
Villiers and Beverley by receiving a vigorous thump on his shoulder.
"Sorry we're late, old son," exclaimed the former apologetically.
"Ran across old Hammersley just under the Bargate. You remember him?"
Claverhouse nodded, then put the paper on the table.
"Cast your eye on this, old thing," he said. "A bit tall, eh, what?"
"What, Rio del Oro shares? Thanks, I'm not having any," said Villiers
decidedly.
"No, next column," explained Claverhouse. "There, where my thumb is."
"What's the wheeze?" inquired Beverley, craning his neck and looking
over Villier's shoulder.
"That's what I want to know," replied Alec. "If there's anything in
it, I'm on."
The announcement was as follows:--
"To Demobilized Officers. Those wishing for further excitement and
adventure overseas and who are physically and mentally capable of
taking care of themselves are invited to communicate with the
under-signed. An enterprise involving the risking of two hundred and
fifty pounds per head is in contemplation. The capital may be lost;
on the other hand, there is a possibility of a gain of one thousand
per cent upwards. Applications are especially invited from ex-members
of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and Royal Air Force, but those
persons formerly serving in other branches of H.M. Services will be
given consideration. Full particulars of the scheme, which will
require twelve months' personal service, will be supplied to _bona
fide_ applicants.--Address, 'Joystick', c/o Messrs. Steady and
Strong, Richborough Chambers, Southampton."
"Claptrap!" declared Villiers, taking up the menu-card, which
represented something rather more concrete, and consequently rather
more digestible, than the newspaper announcement.
"P'raps," admitted Claverhouse, with his characteristic drawl. "'Tany
rate the bloke's straightforward enough to tell you that you might be
chucking your money away."
"That's so," agreed Beverley. "We can investigate. I suppose there's
no obligation to carry on if the thing looks fishy."
"I don't mind going that far," said Villiers. "And if it looks a
sound scheme I'll plank down three hundred. After all three hundred
is only worth about a hundred and eighty pounds, and if we are kept
employed for a twelvemonth and get a bit of excitement chucked in,
well--we might just as soon spend our gratuities that way as being
rooked and rushed at home."
Beverley made no audible comment. He was of a cautious nature, and
his cautiousness was heightened by the fact that he was responsible
for the maintenance of a young brother for at least a couple of
years.
While the waiter was taking orders the subject was dropped, but as
soon as the man had departed Claverhouse returned to the matter.
"Wonder if it's a filibustering stunt?" he hazarded.
"Or piracy," added Villiers. "I heard a yarn floating around only
yesterday about a merchant skipper whose crew were killed in cold
blood by a U-boat. The old man was taken prisoner, but managed to
escape, and now he's vowed to get his own back. How I don't know,
unless he turns pirate and goes for every Fritz he falls in with on
the high seas."
"Thanks, I'm not having any there," declared Beverley. "I don't want
to find myself hanging in the modern equivalent to Execution Dock."
"Nor I," added Villiers. "Apparently this stunt has something to do
with the sea, since it's R.N.V.R. fellows who are wanted."
"And Air Force blokes," said Claverhouse gently.
"Nothing like sticking up for your own crush, old bird," remarked
Villiers. "Yes, that part puzzles me a bit. Look here, let's take
Beverley's advice and make inquiries. If it isn't all jonnick we can
pipe down."
"When?" asked Claverhouse. "Now? At once?"
Villiers laughed.
"Hardly," he replied. "Pretty guys we'd look trotting round to
Richborough Chambers and asking for 'Joystick'. It's too much like
asking for trouble to my mind. No, the best thing we can do without
compromising ourselves is to write and ask for an interview. Then we
can resolve ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means."
"Joint letter?" asked Beverley.
"No, individual, briefly stating our qualifications," replied
Villiers.
"But, in that case, you or I might be sent for and the others
ignored," objected Claverhouse. "I vote we stick together--united we
stand sort of touch."
"That's the stuff to give 'em," was Villiers' rejoinder.