THE PIRATE CREW SIGN ON
ON the following day, Mr. Chamfer, the Admiralty inspector, arrived.
He was a short, slim-built man with a totally disproportionate sense
of his own importance. Thirty years of Civil Service life had got
him into a rut. It mattered little how he performed his duties as
long as he did them somehow; a monthly visit to the cashier's office
at Devonport Dockyard to draw his salary was an assured thing. At
the end of every year his salary was subject to a fixed increase.
Whether he earned it or not, whether he possessed higher or lower
qualifications than his confrères mattered not at all--the annual
"rise" came with unfailing certainty. Mr. Chamfer was a firm
believer in the principle of following the line of least resistance,
namely, to get through his perfunctory duties with the minimum of
trouble. Provided he was treated with due deference to his position
by the principals of the various shipbreaking firms with whom he had
to deal, the former had no cause to complain of irritating demands
on the part of the Admiralty inspector.
"Ah, good morning, Mr. Trevorrick!" he exclaimed. "Fine morning.
Business going strong, I hope? Let me see: R 81 arrived here this
week. Started on her yet?"
"No, sir," replied Trevorrick, with his tongue in his cheek. "We're
engaging ten additional hands for that job. Next time you pay us a
visit you'll find that there's not very much left of her."
"And R 67?" inquired Mr. Chamfer, consulting an official form.
"She's practically demolished," was the reply. "Do you wish to make
an inspection?"
The inspector gave a quick glance out of the office window. Eighty
yards away lay the object under discussion, the gaunt skeleton of a
mammoth, the steel ribs of which were being attacked by a swarm of
workmen, who gave the onlooker the impression that they were
Lilliputians clambering over Gulliver's recumbent form.
"No, thanks; I won't trouble you," he hastened to reply, as he
scribbled, "R 81--work in hand; R 67 practically demolished," in
column six of the official document. "Well, since you suggest it, I
will--just a nip. And soda, please. Well, Mr. Trevorrick, your good
health and success to your work."
Two minutes later, Mr. Chamfer's car was tearing along the Tregony
Road on its way back to Devonport. It would be three months at least
before the official repeated the visit, and much was to happen at
Polkyll Creek before those three months were up.
"Fancy, that little worm draws as much pay as a full-blown captain!"
remarked Trevorrick to his partner. "You and I have to keep
blighters of that sort. Well thank goodness that's over. We'll have
the men up now."
The yard-bell uttered its warning notes. Although it wanted half an
hour to "knock-off time," the thirty employees of the firm of
Trevorrick, Pengelly & Co., promptly left their work and trooped up
to the office, wondering whether the bell had been rung in mistake
or whether something of an unusual nature was on the boards. There
had been rumours, originating goodness only knows where, that the
works might have to close down, and that prospect, with winter only
a few weeks off, was a dismal one.
They trooped into the large office and found Mr. Trevorrick looking
cheerful and self-possessed, with Mr. Pengelly, with a frown on his
face, toying nervously with a paper-knife.
Trevorrick wasted no time in preliminaries.
"Men!" he began. "Present-day conditions of the metal market have
forced us to make preparations for the closing-down of the works. If
there were any indications of a recovery during the next three or
four months we would hold on. Unfortunately, there are none."
He paused, rapidly scanning the features of the dejected men. There
was no doubt about their being downcast. He realised that
figuratively he held them in the hollow of his hand.
"However," he continued, "there is no reason why the amicable
relations between us as employers and employees should not be
maintained; but, let me hasten to remind you that amicable relations
won't fill empty stomachs. Mr. Pengelly and myself are anxious to
put our sincerity to a practical test. It rests with you whether you
decide to take advantage of our offer.
"Before going deeper into the matter, I can assure you of a constant
job, paid for at the same rates that you are receiving at present
with the addition of a bonus, which might be anything up to a couple
of hundred pounds, at the termination of the first year's work. It
may entail discomfort, it is of a hazardous nature, although with
due precautions there is no danger that cannot be avoided. There is
one stipulation I must make--each and every man must be under the
strictest pledge of secrecy."
He paused again. The men shuffled uneasily. Several at the back of
the room whispered hoarsely to each other.
"Is the job straight and above-board, sir?" inquired an anxious
voice.
Trevorrick looked straight at the speaker.
"Naturally," he replied.
His tone carried conviction. Had he said more in reply, the men
might have "smelt a rat."
"Very good, sir; I'm in it," announced the cautious one. Others
joined in accepting the decidedly indefinite offer.
"Any one not wishing to sign on can go," exclaimed Trevorrick. "I
won't blame him for refusing a job about which he knows nothing, but
there are other people's interests to be safeguarded. What! All
agreed? Excellent! Now, Mr. Pengelly, will you please read out the
declaration and obtain every man's signature, please?"
The document binding each employee to secrecy was cleverly worded,
concluding with the affirmative that each man admitted his liability
to be summarily dismissed for insufficiency of work, bad
workmanship, insubordination, turbulence, inebriety or other offence
or misconduct contrary to the rules and regulations of the _Posidon_
Salvage Company.
"There you are, men," exclaimed Trevorrick, after the last signature
had been obtained. "You now know what is the nature of the
work--salvage. I will briefly relate the history of the _Posidon_. Ten
or twelve years ago--in 1916, to be exact--the _Posidon_, bound from
Quebec for the United Kingdom with a cargo consisting mainly of
copper and silver ingots, was torpedoed by a Hun submarine when
about six miles S.S.W. of the Lizard.
"An attempt was made to beach her on Looe Bar, but she turned turtle
and sank in fifteen fathoms. After the Armistice attempts were made
to salve the cargo. Divers went down, found the wreck lying over on
her beam ends. There were a few bars of copper found, but of silver
not a solitary ingot. The explosion of the torpedo had blown away
one side of the strong-room. That discovery brought the salvage work
to an abrupt termination.
"Now then. This is where we come in. From a most trustworthy source,
I found out what actually did happen to the ingots. The _Posidon_
turned turtle and sank, but between the two operations there was an
interval. She drifted bottom-upwards for perhaps half an hour. In
that position the weight of the copper burst open the hatches and
nearly the whole lot was strewn on the bed of the sea. The silver,
too, fell through the blown-in face of the strong-room.
Consequently, when the ship did make her final plunge, she was two
hundred yards away from the spot where she had dumped her precious
cargo. Is that clear?"
A murmur of assent came from the interested listeners. Tales of
sunken treasure waiting to be picked up from a veritable Tom
Tiddler's ground appeal to most people; and Trevorrick's breezy,
convincing manner did not fail to impress the simple-minded
audience.
"You know it's there, sir?" inquired one of the employees, an
ex-seaman diver.
"Certainly, Hunt," replied Trevorrick. "I've seen it. I cannot
produce better proof than that?"
"Any difficulties, sir, in the way of other people being on the same
lay?" asked another.
"The Admiralty, by whom the vessel was chartered, have abandoned
her; the underwriters have settled up and written her off as a bad
debt, although it may be possible that they might want to chip in.
That's why we must conduct our operations in secret. It's all
aboveboard, you'll understand. I wouldn't defraud any one. I have
taken counsel's opinion and have been informed that we have a moral,
legal and every other jolly old right to stick to what we can find.
But we must guard ourselves against others who may try to jump our
claim.
"How? I will tell you. As you know, the Admiralty inspector has just
been here. I took the opportunity to sound him, and he assured me
that there would be no objection on his part against our employing R
81 as a salvage craft. Being fitted with airlocks, enabling a diver
to leave and enter at will, she is an ideal proposition for the job.
The only difficulty is getting her in and out of Falmouth Harbour.
Officious busy-bodies might write to the Admiralty asking why she
was being employed instead of being broken up. I mentioned this to
Mr. Chamfer. He was most sympathetic and hinted--hinted, mind you
--that if R 81 could be sufficiently disguised, there ought to be no
further difficulty. That, with your co-operation, I propose to do."
The men's enthusiasm was rapidly rising. Pengelly gave a glance of
admiration at his partner. There was no doubt about it: Trevorrick
held them in the palm of his hand.
"There's no time to be lost," continued the promoter. "We'll start
this afternoon.... Carry on, men. Barnard and Marchant, will you
remain, please?"
The workmen hurried gleefully out of the office, leaving the two
foremen with whom the principals conferred over certain details in
connection with the fitting out of the submarine.
At length Barnard and Marchant were dismissed, and Trevorrick and
Pengelly found themselves alone.
"Well?" queried the former abruptly. "What do you think of the yarn
I've just been pitching? That got 'em, didn't it?"
Pengelly nodded.
"So far, I admit," he replied. "But----"
"Go on, man; get it off your chest," prompted the senior partner,
now in high good humour.
"S'posing we get R 81 under way. How do you propose to switch over
from salvaging to piracy? That'll take some doing."
"Possibly," admitted Trevorrick. "But I'll do it. You wait and see.
By the bye," he continued, abruptly changing the subject. "What was
that yarn you were telling me about Chamfer?--Something about him
coming into a pot of money."
"Yes, lucky bounder," replied Pengelly enviously. "Some misguided
relative of his shuffled off this mortal coil about two years ago
and left him thirty thousand pounds."
"Hanged if I'd stop in the Admiralty service with that little lot,"
remarked Trevorrick. "Even though he's got a soft billet. I'd blow
the lot in a couple of years. 'Easy come, easy go' is my motto."
"He's evidently of a different nature," said Pengelly. "But why do
you ask?"
"Nothing much," was the response. "Look here, Pengelly, we'll have
to throw dust in the eyes of the shareholders. Can we run to another
five per cent.?"
"It will cut into our capital."
"It'll have to," decided Trevorrick. "We'll declare a half-yearly
dividend. On the strength of that we might apply for extra capital.
And another thing: you'd better run across to Penzance within the
next few days and sound your pal, Port--What's his name?"
"Porthoustoc--Silas Porthoustoc."
"That's the fellow. We'll want him and his lugger. He's sound, isn't
he?"
"Do anything," replied Pengelly. "If he were put to it, he'd be a
second King o' Prussia.[1] Nod's as good as a wink to him--at his
price."
"I wouldn't let him know too much," suggested Trevorrick. "At least,
not at first. Once I get him in my power sufficiently, I can put a
half-nelson over him in double-quick time. Then he daren't open his
mouth--price or no price."
Pengelly eyed his companion dubiously.
"You're not going to try that game on me, I hope?" he asked.
Trevorrick brought his huge hand heavily down on his partner's
shoulder.
"Come now," he exclaimed. "You know the saying, 'Honour amongst
thieves?' Aren't we sworn comrades under the Jolly Roger?"
Pengelly nodded.
"I'd like to remind him of another saw," he soliloquised. "'When
thieves fall out.' But perhaps I'd better not."
[1] King of Prussia: soubriquet of John Carter, a noted Cornish
smuggler, who in the latter part of the eighteenth century held and
fortified Porth Leah, a few miles east of Marazion, as a smuggling
base. On one occasion he fired the guns at a revenue cutter. On
another he broke into the Custom-House at Penzance and recovered
various contraband goods which the Excise people had seized, taking
only "his own" and no more. Carter was a sort of Cornish maritime
Robin Hood. Porth Leah is now called Prussia Cove in memory of this
daring smuggler.