Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: "'THE GOLDEN HIND' RESCUES A SHIPWRECKED CREW."]
THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"
by
Percy F. Westerman
AUTHOR OF
"THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE," "THE MYSTERY SHIP,"
"BILLY BARCROFT OF THE R.N.A.S.,"
ETC., ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
FLEMING WILLIAMS
Publishers
PARTRIDGE
London
1920
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
THE GREAT ADVENTURE SERIES
_PERCY F. WESTERMAN:_
The Airship "Golden Hind"
To the Fore with the Tanks
The Secret Battleplane
Wilmshurst of the Frontier Force
_ROWLAND WALKER:_
Deville McKeene: The Exploits of the Mystery Airman
Blake of the Merchant Service
Buckle of Submarine V2
Oscar Danby, V.C.
LONDON:
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO., LTD.
----
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--A STARTLING PROPOSITION
CHAPTER II--FOSTERDYKE EXPLAINS
CHAPTER III--THE "GOLDEN HIND"
CHAPTER IV--THE DEPARTURE
CHAPTER V--FIRST AWAY
CHAPTER VI--Z64 SCORES
CHAPTER VII--DELAYS
CHAPTER VIII--CAST ADRIFT
CHAPTER IX--THE ESCAPADE OF ENRICO JAURES
CHAPTER X--UNDER EXAMINATION
CHAPTER XI--"WITH INTENT"
CHAPTER XII--CONFIDENCES
CHAPTER XIII--THE TAIL OF A CYCLONE
CHAPTER XIV--THE BOAT'S CREW
CHAPTER XV--REVELATIONS
CHAPTER XVI--THE OBSERVATION BASKET
CHAPTER XVII--A SURPRISE FOR CAPTAIN PROUT
CHAPTER XVIII--UNDER FIRE
CHAPTER XIX--VICTIMS OF A REVOLUTION
CHAPTER XX--WIRELESS REPORTS
CHAPTER XXI--VON SINZIG'S BID FOR SAFETY
CHAPTER XXII--THE END OF Z64
CHAPTER XXIII--A DUMPING OPERATION
CHAPTER XXIV--WITHIN SIGHT OF SUCCESS
CHAPTER XXV--FIRE!
CHAPTER XXVI--"WELL PLAYED, SIR!"
----
The Airship "Golden Hind"
CHAPTER I--A STARTLING PROPOSITION
"What's the move?" enquired Kenneth Kenyon.
"Ask me another, old son," replied his chum, Peter Bramsdean.
"Fosterdyke is a cautious old stick, but he knows what's what. There's
something in the wind, you mark my words."
"Then you're going to see him?"
"Rather! And you too, old bean. Where's a pencil? We can't keep the
telegraph boy waiting."
Bramsdean tore a form from a pad, scribbled on it the
reply--"Fosterdyke, Air Grange, near Blandford. Yes, will expect motor
to-morrow morning," and he had taken the initial step of a journey that
man had never before attempted.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were both ex-flying officers of the Royal Air
Force. What they did in the Great War now matters little. Sufficient is
it to say that had they belonged to any belligerent nation save their
own they would have been styled "aces"; but since in the Royal Air Force
details of personal achievements were deprecated, and the credit given
to the Force as a whole, they merely "carried on" until ordered to "get
out," or, in other words, be demobilised. Then, each with a
highly-prized decoration and a gratuity of precisely the same amount as
that given to an officer who had never served anywhere save at the Hotel
Cecil, they found themselves literally on their feet, relegated to the
limbo of civilian life. It was not long before they found how quickly
their gratuities diminished. Like many other ex-members of His
Majesty's Forces, they began to realise that in smashing the German
menace they had helped to raise a menace at home--the greed and cupidity
of the Profiteer.
They were just two of thousands of skilled airmen for whom as such there
was now no need. Commercial aviation had yet to be developed; trick
flying and exhibition flights lead to nothing definite, and only a very
small percentage of war-time airmen could be retained in the
reconstituted Air Force.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were not men to "take it lying down." They had
pluck and resource and a determination to "get a move on," and within a
twelvemonth of their demobilisation they found themselves partners and
sole proprietors of a fairly prosperous road transport concern operating
over the greater part of the South of England.
But it wasn't the same thing as flying. Looking back over those
strenuous years of active service, they remembered vividly the good
times they had had, while the "sticky" times were mellowed until they
could afford to laugh at those occasions when they "had the wind up
badly."
Then, with a suddenness akin to the arrival of a "whizz-bang," came a
telegram from Sir Reginald Fosterdyke, asking the chums to see him on
the morrow.
Sir Reginald Fosterdyke had been Bramsdean's and Kenyon's O.C., or, to
employ service phraseology, a Wing-Commander. On his demobilisation he
went to live at Air Grange, a large old-world house standing on high
ground, a good five miles from Blandford. Very rarely he left his
country-house; his visits to town were few and far between, and his
friends wondered at the reticence of the versatile and breezy
Fosterdyke. He seldom wrote to anyone. When he did, his correspondence
was brief and to the point. More frequently he telegraphed--and then he
meant business. In pre-war days Air Grange was famous for its week-end
house parties. The shooting, one of the best in the county of Dorset,
was an additional source of attraction to Fosterdyke's guests. But the
war, and afterwards, had changed all that. Few, very few, guests were
to be found at Air Grange; the staff of servants was greatly reduced,
the well-kept grounds developed a state of neglect. Sir Reginald's
friends came to the conclusion that the baronet had become "mouldy."
They wondered what possessed him to live an almost hermit-like
existence. Fosterdyke knew their curiosity, but he merely shrugged his
shoulders and "carried on." His work in the world of aviation was by no
means ended. It might be said that it was yet a long way from attaining
its zenith.
Early on the morning following the receipt of the baronet's telegram Sir
Reginald's car pulled up in front of the premises used as the
headquarters of the Southern Roads Transport Company. Kenyon and
Bramsdean, having given final instructions to their work's foreman--a
former flight-sergeant R.A.F.--jumped into the car, and were soon
whisking northwards at a speed that was considerably in excess of that
fixed by the regulations.
Although of a retiring disposition, Sir Reginald Fosterdyke had made a
point of keeping in touch with his former officers. He had a sort of
personal interest in every one of them, and on their part they regarded
him as one of the best. Whenever, on rare occasions, Fosterdyke ran
down to Bournemouth he invariably looked up Bramsdean and Kenyon to talk
over old times. But being invited to Air Grange was quite a different
matter. Vaguely, the chums wondered what it might mean, conjecturing
ideas that somehow failed to be convincing. Yet they knew that there was
"something in the wind." They knew Sir Reginald and his methods.
Through Blandford, up and past the now deserted hutments where formerly
German prisoners led an almost idyllic existence in their enemy's
country, the car sped on until it gained the lofty downs in the
direction of Shaftesbury. Then, turning up a steep and narrow lane, the
car drew up at the gate of Air Grange.
It had to. There was no gate-keeper to unlock and throw open the
massive iron gates. That task the chauffeur had to perform, stopping
the car again in order to make secure the outer portals of Sir
Reginald's demesne.
While the car remained stationary the two occupants looked in vain for a
glimpse of the house. All they could see was a winding, weed-grown
road, with a thick belt of pine trees on either hand. To the left of
the road and under the lee of the trees were half a dozen wooden huts,
unmistakably of a type known as temporary military quarters. Smoke
issuing from the chimneys suggested the idea that they were in
"occupation," and a couple of dungaree-clad men carrying a length of
copper pipe on their shoulders confirmed the fact. Somewhere from
behind the trees came the sharp rattle of a pneumatic drilling machine.
Kenyon glanced at his companion.
"What's the Old Man up to, I wonder?" he enquired. "Quite a labour
colony. Look--air flasks too, by Jove!"
A pile of rusty wrought-iron cylinders stacked on the grass by the side
of the path recalled visions of by-gone days.
"Something doing, that's evident," agreed Bramsdean. "What's the stunt,
and why are we hiked into it?"
"Wait and see, old bird," replied Kenyon.
The chauffeur regained the car and slipped in the clutch. For full
another quarter of a mile the car climbed steadily, negotiating awkward
corners in the rutty, winding path, until, emerging from the wood, it
pulled up outside the house of Fosterdyke.
No powdered footman awaited them. On the steps, clad in worn but
serviceable tweeds, stood Sir Reginald Fosterdyke himself.
The baronet--generally referred to by his former officers as the Old
Man--was of medium height, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested. He was
about thirty-five years of age, with well-bronzed features, clean
shaven, and possessed a thick crop of closely-cut dark brown hair tinged
with iron grey.
He held out his left hand as Kenyon and Bramsdean ascended the stone
steps--his right hand was enveloped in surgical bandages--and greeted
his guests warmly.
"Glad to see you, boys!" he exclaimed. "It's good of you to come. Have
a glass of sherry?"
He led the way to the study, rang a bell, and gave instructions to a
man-servant whom Kenyon recognised as the O.C.'s batman somewhere in
France.
Sir Reginald sat on the edge of the table and whimsically regarded his
former subordinates. At that moment, rising above the staccato rattle
of the pneumatic hammer, came the unmistakable whirr of an aerial
propeller. To Kenyon and Bramsdean it was much the same as a
trumpet-call to an old war-horse.
"Sounds like old times, eh?" remarked Sir Reginald.
"Rather, sir," agreed Kenyon heartily, and, at a loss to express himself
further, he relapsed into silence.
"Experimental work, sir?" enquired Bramsdean.
Fosterdyke nodded.
"Yes," he replied in level tones. "Experimental work, that's it.
That's why I sent for you. I'm contemplating a flight round the world.
Keen on having a shot at it?"