WAR!
THE passengers of the good ship _Perseus_ were holding what they bravely
called a gymkhana. Their numbers had been slightly reinforced in South
Africa; some people had left the ship, but those who had joined had
brought the total to nearly forty. The newcomers included two or three
cheerful girls, and some energetic young Englishmen, who declared
frankly that they found the ship far too quiet, and entered with vigour
in the process of waking things up. They organised dances in the
moonlight, to the strains of the captain’s gramophone; concerts, at
which most people performed extremely badly, amidst the enthusiastic
plaudits of the audience; and finally a sports committee, which drew up
an ambitious programme of deck-game competitions, to culminate in a
“special-event” day. No one was allowed to stand out. The quiet ones
grumbled and fled to the sanctity of the boat-deck—where no games were
permitted—in the intervals of making themselves look more or less
foolish at deck billiards or bull-board. The younger members grew
enthusiastic by force of example, and things went merrily enough until
the day of the final display.
The officers—especially the captain and the doctor—looked with
approval on the new activity. At all times the journey up the West Coast
of Africa is dull and long. No ports are touched at between Cape Town
and Las Palmas; and it was quite possible that even the latter would be
forbidden the _Perseus_ by wireless orders by the time she arrived at
the Canary Islands, since German ships were known to be active in the
neighbourhood. The long and dreary stretch included the crossing of the
Equator, and a spell of tropical heat which, if not so bad as the Red
Sea, was apt to be sufficiently trying under ordinary circumstances, but
ten times more so when complicated by the lack of fresh air entailed by
war precautions. Therefore the Captain, keeping a silent watch on his
passengers’ nerves, and the doctor, directing his guardianship more
particularly to their livers, smiled on the games, and incited them to
antics yet more enlivening.
War seemed very far away. The first few days out from Cape Town had been
hard to bear in their complete isolation from news—especially as Cape
Town had provided an assortment of rumours, principally unconfirmed,
which gave unlimited food for tantalising speculation. But gradually war
talk slackened for lack of any food, and people agreed that it was
really more practical to be as busy as possible, and wait as patiently
as might be for definite news at Las Palmas. What risk there was, was
accepted as part of the general routine; to speculate on it was useless,
to worry about it as practical as worrying over a possible earthquake or
cyclone. Any smoke on the horizon might be a German man-of-war; it might
also be a peaceful British tramp steamer, jogging down to Australia. But
they were far off their course, and scarcely a sign of a ship had been
seen since leaving Africa—two or three dark smoke smudges many miles
off, a timber ship which went close by them, and once a collier, with a
couple of lighters in tow: useful black slaves, the captain said,
waiting to coal British cruisers. All the coast was well patrolled by
the Allies’ ships; they kept out of sight, but sometimes the wireless
operator, listening at his own silent instrument, heard their code
signals, comfortably close at hand.
The gymkhana was more remarkable for energy than for any special skill.
It drew a crowded house, most of the audience being required from time
to time as performers—a circumstance that is apt to restrain criticism,
since critics can be really untrammelled only when pleasantly certain of
not having to face the limelight themselves. There had been potato-races
and obstacle-races; they had chalked the pig’s eye—a competition won
gloriously by Mr. Linton, who had at least succeeded in placing the eye
in the porker’s snout, whereas no other blindfolded competitor had gone
nearer than his hind leg. Gentlemen in sacks had run, and tripped, and
fallen, and writhed helplessly, amid unfeeling laughter; ladies had
driven blindfolded gentlemen between zig-zag rows of bottles, with the
customary results to the bottles; other gentlemen, greatly daring, had
raced for parcels of feminine attire, and, donning it in a manner highly
unscientific and interesting, had held it about them miserably, and fled
for home. There had been races in pairs, wherein ladies had to tie their
partners’ neckties and light their cigarettes; blindfolded fighting;
egg-and-spoon scurries—in short, all the paraphernalia of what the
natives of India call a “pagal” gymkhana—pronouncing the adjective
“poggle” and signifying by it a revel of much buffoonery.
It was nearing tea-time when the competitors took their places for the
last event, which the doctor, much overheated by his exertions as
umpire, called a concession to the fine arts. Music was its basis, and
it was run in pairs—the lady sitting meekly on a camp-stool while her
partner raced to her, and whistled in her ear a tune which it was her
part to recognise. This done, she wrote down the name and handed the
document to the whistler, who turned and raced back with it. It was a
competition in which musical ability was less likely to score than an
ample supply of breath and fleetness of foot.
Norah and Wally were paired together, their most dangerous opponents
being Mr. Grantham and a cheery Cape Town damsel whose acquaintance with
rag-time airs was little short of the black art. Jim and his partner had
survived one heat, but had gone down in the second—owing to the lady’s
insisting that “Pop Goes the Weasel” was “God Save the King.” Jim had
liked his partner, and his faith in human nature was shaken. He exhorted
Norah to “show more sense,” and took his place by the rail to cheer her
and Wally on to great deeds.
There were three couples, their male halves being somewhat equally
matched in speed. Norah braced herself to her task as they tore down the
deck to the waiting ladies on the camp-stools—feeling in her heart that
she would much rather race than wait. There was too much responsibility
about the feminine part of the business—since no man would ever admit
that he had failed to whistle correctly. The flying figures arrived,
pell-mell—she lent an anxious ear to Wally’s musical efforts,
thankfully recognised “Tit Willow,” and saw him turn to race away, at
the same moment that Grantham received his document and started home.
“What tune did you hear?” she asked Edith Agnew, the Cape Town girl.
“Oh, an easy one—‘Tipperary.’ But isn’t it hard to hear!—they puff and
pant, and every one laughs, and the sea is noisy—and altogether it’s
enough to make Wagner sound like a musical comedy! And they look so
funny I can only laugh, instead of writing. Look—it’s a dead heat, I
believe!”
It was—Grantham and Wally breasted the tape together, and returned
presently, somewhat crestfallen.
“We’re awfully puffed, but it’s the last thing on the programme—we
might as well run it off,” Grantham declared. “You don’t mind, Wally?”
“Not a bit—my cheerful lay is naturally so unintelligible that a little
puffing can’t hurt it much,” Wally laughed. “Come on—ready, Norah?”
They went back to the starting-point and received the umpire’s
instructions; then came flying down the deck. Norah struggled hard to
recognise a tune that sounded like no melody she had ever heard, partly
because it would persist in mingling with the one which Grantham was
whistling desperately to Miss Agnew. Wally came to the end of the verse,
and began again, breathlessly. Light dawned on Norah in a flash.
“Oh—I am stupid!” she uttered, grasping her pencil and scribbling
“Bonnie Dundee” wildly. A half-second earlier Miss Agnew gave vent to a
shriek of intelligence, and wielded a distraught pencil. It was almost a
neck-and-neck race—but Grantham was a nose ahead.
“You’ve won!” said Norah, laughing. “Well done!” They shook hands
cheerfully; to stare in surprise, a moment later, when the doctor picked
up his megaphone and announced in stentorian tones that the winners were
Miss Linton and Mr. Meadows.
“But how?” queried Norah. All the spectators had left their places—they
were the centre of a laughing group. Wally arrived, triumphant, and
pumped her hand anew.
“That was my telegraphic partner!” laughed Grantham, in mock wrath. “I
whistled ‘Rule Britannia’ like a nightingale, and all she wrote was
this.” He held out a crumpled scrap of paper with “Brit” inscribed on it
in hieroglyphic letters. “Naturally, the umpire wouldn’t accept it—so
they disqualified me.”
“I’m awfully sorry!” Miss Agnew laughed. “I was overcome—and you
whistled so very badly—and I was sure Wally meant to start.” She tilted
a pretty nose. “I’m sure ‘Brit’ is good enough for that old tune,
anyway.”
Jim Linton swung round suddenly.
“Is that the wireless?”
From overhead, as every merry voice hushed to silence, broke out the
crisp, familiar crackle—the wireless, spitting its message over the
sea. No one moved for a moment. Then came another sound—a long, heavy
“Boom-m!” that ran echoing round the horizon. Women screamed, and ran
for their babies. Men looked at each other dumbly. The quick spitting of
the wireless went on—a tiny sound, following the crashing “Boom,” but
even more full of meaning.
“Boom-m-m!” Another heavy crash; and the spell that had fallen on the
laughing group of passengers broke suddenly, and there was a stampede
round to the starboard side of the ship. Norah, running, found Jim’s
hand on her shoulder.
“Steady, kiddie—keep back till we know what it is.”
“I can’t, Jim!”
“Yes, you can—keep Dad back. Wally and I will find out.”
“Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m!”
Ahead of the _Perseus_ something struck the water heavily, and almost
simultaneously great splashes like waterspouts shot up a ship’s length
away. Turning the corner of the deck, carried along by the crowd, Norah
saw a grey ship lying not far off, so close that she could see the evil
mouths of the guns that looked out from her side. Flame and smoke sprang
from them as she stopped, breathless. Again the long crash echoed, and
water shot into the air from three great splashes near the big liner.
“Good heavens—they’re shelling us!” a man exclaimed.
The passengers huddled together like frightened sheep, uncertain what to
do. There had been no signal for boat-drill, and no officer was visible,
except upon the bridge. The crackling of the wireless had stopped—and
suddenly they saw the Marconi operator spring up the bridge-ladder.
The doctor took swift command.
“Every one muster on the port side!” he shouted. “No need to risk flying
splinters here!”
He hustled the women before him, back to the side from which they had
come. A few children were crying pitifully; but there was no disorder,
and the women obeyed quietly, those who had no children turning to help
the mothers. Stewards appeared, and the doctor sent them through the
ship to collect stragglers; the stewardesses came up and took their
places quietly.
From the bridge, the second officer came hurrying down. He joined the
doctor.
“There’s no danger,” he said, so that every one could hear. “They put
those shells across our bows to stop us using the wireless—but Grey got
a certain amount away first. Then they signalled that they’d sink us if
we sent any more; so naturally, we didn’t.”
“What happens now?”
“Their orders are, to follow them at full speed. I don’t know what they
mean to do—but the Captain says that every one is to prepare to leave
the ship. It may or may not be a case of taking to the boats; they are
being got ready now. Not much luggage can be taken, but every one must
bring all available rugs and wraps; the nights are cold. Be ready to
obey the boat-drill signal.”
Mr. Linton’s party had prepared for such emergency early in the voyage;
it was only a few minutes before they were ready, suit-cases locked and
wraps rolled up. Jim came to carry up Norah’s belongings to the deck.
She cast a wistful look round the cabin. It had grown very homelike, and
the familiar photographs of Billabong and Bosun and her school chums
looked curiously out of place and forlorn amidst this sudden realisation
of war. She shut the door upon them with a little sigh.
On deck everything was as usual, save that sailors were working busily
at the boats, provisioning them, and getting them in readiness to swing
out from the davits. The horizon was empty of ships; only ahead of them
steamed the grey German warship, her smoke making dark plumes across the
sky. The _Perseus_ followed meekly. Norah could see the captain on the
bridge—and a great throb of pity for him surged up within her.
“He’s so responsible!” she said. “And he has such a lovely ship. It must
be dreadful to think of losing her.”
She looked up and down the long lines of the deck; at the towering mass
of the funnel overhead. It seemed incredible that so great a ship was
presently to be sunk; as easily might one believe that any splendid
cathedral could disappear suddenly into the ground. For weeks they had
lived on the _Perseus_, until she had grown like a second home to them,
as fixed and stable a thing as any hotel. Now she was doomed; they would
fire shells or torpedoes at her, and she would suddenly vanish, never to
be heard of again. The blue sea would ripple gaily over the place where
she lay—the sea on which she had ridden in splendour. It was too
horrible to believe.
Norah looked up at the bridge again, and saw Captain Garth’s set face.
He was gazing downwards at his ship. When his eyes met hers he smiled
and waved his hand slightly, and though Norah greatly despised tears,
she felt a hot lump in her throat and turned away to the rail, blinking
very hard. If it were dreadful for her to think of the great “crack”
liner going down, what must it be for the man whose pride and
responsibility she was?
They stood in a little knot on the deck, watching. Both ships were going
at full speed; but presently a line of flags fluttered out on the German
ship, they heard the sound of the engine-room telegraph ringing from the
bridge, and the throbbing of the machinery of the _Perseus_ stopped
suddenly. The German turned, steaming down upon them. A little way off,
the warship hove to and lowered a boat, containing two officers as well
as the crew. The _Perseus_ swung out a gangway to meet it.
The boat shot across the narrow strip of sea intervening between the two
vessels. The crew were stolid men, with heavy faces; they paid no
attention to the jeers or the questions of the crew of the _Perseus_ as
they rocked on the lazy swell beside her. Their officers sprang quickly
up the gangway, keen-looking men, very trim and alert. They cast a quick
glance over the passengers, and disappeared up the bridge ladder.
“Overhauling the ship’s papers,” the doctor said.
“Well, they can’t sink us while these men are on board!” remarked an old
lady, comfortably. She took out her knitting—a khaki muffler—and began
to work. “I do so like the German method of knitting—and now I feel it
my duty to use the English fashion. It’s so annoying!” she confided to
Norah. Her needles clicked busily.
Presently the two German officers came down the ladder, followed by
Captain Garth. They went to the Marconi-room, where the young sentry
stood his ground for a moment, ludicrously undecided, changing to
immense relief as the captain waved him aside with a curt nod. There
came sounds of altercation in the Marconi-room—and the young operator,
Grey, came out with a thunderous face and joined the passengers.
“Brutes!” he said, explosively. “They’ve dismantled the apparatus and
kicked me out—one of the great beasts threatened me with a revolver.
Wish I’d had one myself!”
“A jolly good thing you hadn’t, young man, if that’s how you feel about
it!” remarked the doctor.
There was a wretched feeling of helplessness over every one. To make
short work of the two strange men would have been so easy; to think of
doing it so futile, with the grey warship lying near, her guns trained
on the _Perseus_. They waited as patiently as they might until the
officers reappeared; and presently a message came to them to muster on
the boat deck.
They faced the Germans somewhat defiantly, the most placid of the
company being the old lady with the muffler, who knitted serenely, after
casting one glance of withering comprehensiveness at their captors. The
Germans held the passenger-list, and ran over it quickly. They spoke
English without difficulty, and with scarcely any accent.
“There is one name not present,” the senior said; “Henry Smith, booked
for London. Where is he?”
“In his cabin,” Captain Garth answered curtly,
“Is he ill?”
“No. He is a prisoner.”
“So?” said the German, his eye lighting with interest. “You will have
him brought here.” He talked to his companion in their own language
while the captain gave the necessary orders.
There was a little buzz among the passengers. Many of them had not heard
of Mr. Smith; those who had done so had acquired a vague idea that he
had left the ship at Durban. Now, as he came up the deck between two
stewards, every one craned forward to see him. He was pale and rather
thin, and the glance he cast upon Jim and Wally was scarcely one of
affection. Then he broke into a wide smile at the sight of the familiar
uniform, and uttered a quick German greeting.
The two officers showed some astonishment, which was merged in
sympathetic interest as Mr. Smith uttered floods of Teutonic eloquence.
Once they glanced keenly at the two boys—and Jim felt a thrill of
thankfulness that Norah’s part in the discovery of the spy had not been
revealed to Mr. Smith, who had evidently devoted his leisure in his
cabin to the solace of bearing malice. Finally the senior officer turned
to Captain Garth.
“Herr Schmidt will return with us,” he said. “Later, we shall require as
prisoners these two lads, the officer Dixon, and those of the passengers
who are military officers. Meanwhile you will have boats and passengers
ready, and prepare to leave the ship at daylight, on receipt of further
signals. Until then you will follow us. You will show no lights
whatever, and should you attempt to signal, we will sink you without
further notice. We will now inspect the crew—the passengers are
dismissed.”
David Linton stepped forward.
“You cannot mean to take my son and his friend prisoners, sir,” he said.
“They are only boys.”
“Only boys!” said the German, curtly. “Boys of their age and physique
are with the colours in our army to-day. But for their attack on Herr
Schmidt——”
Mr. Smith shot a rapid sentence at his countrymen. The officer laughed
unpleasantly.
“So?—going home to the army, are they? They will certainly be better
out of the way, then. That will do, sir—you will only earn them
increased severity.” And Mr. Linton, certain in his angry bewilderment
of only one thing—that he had made matters worse—found himself
dismissed, with a finality that forbade another word.
On the lower deck the Billabong quartet faced each other, at first
dumbly.
“Cheer up,” Jim said, at last, with an effort. “It’s hard luck, of
course, but they aren’t likely to do anything beyond imprisoning us.
Bother old Smith!”
“I wish to goodness we’d left him alone!” said Norah, miserably.
“No, you don’t—and we don’t,” was Jim’s sturdy answer. “I’ll always be
glad we stopped his little game—at any rate we’ll have had that little
scrap of the war! And we may escape—you never can tell—and come
careering over to London to find you. It will be all experience, as you
used to say!”
Norah shivered. She had never thought that the “experience” of which
they used to talk so light-heartedly would mean this.
“I wouldn’t mind so much, to know you were really in Germany,” Mr.
Linton said. “But to be on that abominable ship——!” He shot an angry,
anxious glance at the grey cruiser. Too well he knew her destiny—to
prowl the sea, a pirate in all but name, harassing British shipping
until she herself was sunk. There would be no getting back to Germany
for her—and no consideration for British prisoners on board of her when
the inevitable end came. He looked at the two boyish faces, his heart
full of blank despair.
Wally glanced over the rail. The German boat was returning to the
warship. Mr. Smith sat in the stern with the two officers—a podgy
embodiment of triumph.
“Well, the laugh may be on our side,” he said, cheerfully. “Anyhow, we
needn’t pull long faces over it; I’m hoping for another chance to get
even with old Smithy. Don’t you worry, sir—I’ll look after little Jimmy
for you!”
Jim grinned down on him affectionately. But to David Linton came
memories of Edward Meadows’ anxious face—of his last request, to look
after the little brother who was “such a kid.”
“I’ll work every means in my power to get you both back,” he said,
huskily. “Meanwhile, I can give you plenty of money; and I know you will
both try to keep on good terms with them; you’ll be better treated if
you do. The German sailors do seem disposed to behave as decently as
possible.”
“There are other people a long way worse off than we are,” Jim said.
“Dixon’s married, I know; he has a wife and kiddie in Glasgow. And Major
Edwards and Captain Field have got to leave their wives on the
_Perseus_—my aunt, isn’t it rough on poor little Mrs. Field, with that
troublesome baby!”
Norah jumped.
“That’s my pet baby!” she said. “I’ll go and see if I can take him for a
while.”
She fled to the Fields’ cabin. Captain Field, a tall, delicate man with
quiet ways that Norah liked, was sitting on the couch, his arm round his
wife. The baby was howling dismally, as if he understood. Mrs. Field,
white and tearless, was trying vainly to rock him to sleep.
“I’ll take him, Mrs. Field,” Norah said breathlessly. “He’ll be quite
all right—don’t you worry.”
Mrs. Field protested feebly.
“You want to be with your boys yourself,” she said. “He will go to sleep
presently.”
“He’ll be much happier on deck,” Norah said. She grasped the baby’s
outdoor attire in one hand, tucked him under the other arm, and fled.
The boys and her father had established themselves in a corner of the
deck-lounge; and there the baby sat on a table and played with Jim’s
keys, and became extraordinarily cheerful and contented. Somehow, he
helped them all.
“The nicest yearling I ever saw!” said Jim, when at last it grew dusk.
He rose, giving the baby one finger, on which he fastened with interest,
evidently regarding it as edible. “No, you don’t, young man; I’ve got to
go and put my things together; it’s time we did it, Wal. You’ll come,
too, dad?”
David Linton nodded.
“I’ll go and tub the baby,” Norah said.
She bathed him in one of the big bathrooms, to his great amazement and
delight; and then, wrapping him in a big, soft bath-towel until he
looked like a hilarious chrysalis, she took him back to his mother. Mrs.
Field looked better when she opened the door to receive the
sweet-smelling bundle.
“You’ve bathed him?—oh, Norah, you dear!”
“He was so good,” said Norah. “Of course, he hasn’t his nightie on, Mrs.
Field.”
“I must dress him altogether,” the poor little wife said. “You know we
have to take to the boats at daylight.”
“Yes, of course,” Norah said. “Oh, and Dad said I was to tell you,
Captain Field, that he has made arrangements for Mrs. Field and Tommy to
come in our boat, in—in the boys’ place; and they will be in his
special charge—and Tommy is mine. So you mustn’t worry.”
“Thanks,” said Captain Field; and could say no more. He put out his,
hand and shook Norah’s very hard.
Dinner was served as usual, and people tried to eat. The captain came in
late, and made a little speech between the courses. He was immensely
sorry for them all, he told them; it was the fortune of war, and there
was nothing to be said. Everything possible would be done for their care
and safety, and he told them that he did not doubt that they would aid
him in any measures he could take. Breakfast would be served half an
hour before daylight; they would be called in time. He urged them all to
go to bed early and try to get a good night’s rest. The German ship had
just signalled renewed warnings against any lights showing—he wished
them to remember that they were completely in the power of an enemy who
would sink them without hesitation if orders were disobeyed. He thanked
them for their calm behaviour in the afternoon and, in advance, for the
equal calmness he knew he might expect in the morning. “We’re not a
fighting crowd, but we don’t show the white feather!” finished the
captain, abruptly. He gave a jerky little bow and left the saloon.
“Poor dear young man!” said the old lady who knitted, wiping her eyes.
There was very little sleep on board the _Perseus_ that night. People
talked together in little groups. All luggage was already stowed in the
boats, and nothing remained to be done. In a corner of the deck the
Billabong family stayed, not talking very much, since there seemed so
little to say, but finding some comfort in nearness to each other. Wally
had written letters to his brothers and given them into Mr. Linton’s
keeping.
“Norah ought to turn in,” Jim said, at length. “It’s all very well for
us, for we’ll be in some sort of comfort on the German ship. But it
makes me sick to think of you two—in an open boat. You ought to get all
the sleep you can.”
“Oh, we shall be all right,” his father said. “It’s such calm
weather—and we are no great distance from Teneriffe. We can soon get
into the track of ships, and the chances are that we shall not have to
spend a night in the open.”
“And if we do, it won’t hurt us,” Norah said. “Don’t you bother about
us, Jimmy.”
“Well, go to bed, anyhow,” the boy said. “You’re tired as it is. You may
as well feel fit when you leave in the morning.” So Norah went off
obediently; and soon Wally followed her example, leaving Mr. Linton and
his son to pace the deck together for hours—in silence, most of the
time. The ship’s bells had been forbidden, and there was nothing to mark
the passing of the night. The _Perseus_ cut through the dark water,
following her captor, whose grey shape loomed near. Their heavy thoughts
went ahead, picturing the parting that must come with the dawn.