[Illustration: cover art]
THE THIRD OFFICER
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
50 Old Bailey, LONDON
17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW
BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
Warwick House, Fort Street, BOMBAY
BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
1118 Bay Street, TORONTO
[Illustration: SHE WAS A LIGHT CRUISER OF ABOUT 4000 TONS]
THE
THIRD OFFICER
A Present-day Pirate Story
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
_Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson_
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
By Percy F. Westerman
Rivals of the Reef.
A Shanghai Adventure.
Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
The Junior Cadet.
Captain Starlight.
The Sea-Girt Fortress.
On the Wings of the Wind.
Captured at Tripoli.
Captain Blundell's Treasure.
The Third Officer.
Unconquered Wings.
The Buccaneers of Boya.
The Riddle of the Air.
Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
The Luck of the "Golden Dawn".
Clipped Wings.
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
Winning his Wings.
A Lively Bit of the Front.
A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
East in the "Golden Gain".
The Quest of the "Golden Hope".
Sea Scouts Abroad.
Sea Scouts Up-Channel.
The Wireless Officer.
A Lad of Grit.
The Submarine Hunters.
Sea Scouts All.
The Thick of the Fray.
A Sub and a Submarine.
Under the White Ensign.
The Fight for Constantinople.
With Beatty off Jutland.
_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_
Contents
CHAP.
I. THE S.S. "DONIBRISTLE"
II. HILDA VIVIAN
III. "HEAVE-TO OR I'LL SINK YOU"
IV. UNDER FIRE
V. CAPTURED
VI. UNDER HATCHES
VII. RAMON PORFIRIO
VIII. THE COMPOUND
IX. THE FIRST DAY ON THE ISLAND
X. INVESTIGATIONS
XI. A FIGHT TO A FINISH
XII. PLANS
XIII. "GETTING ON WITH IT"
XIV. THE VIGIL ON THE CLIFFS
XV. HOW MINALTO FARED
XVI. CAPTAIN CONSETT'S REPORT
XVII. THE SCUTTLING OF THE "DONIBRISTLE"
XVIII. SUCCESSFUL SO FAR
XIX. A DASH FOR FREEDOM
XX. THE VOYAGE
XXI. THE CASTAWAYS
XXII. MAKING THE BEST OF IT
XXIII. WHERE THE PIG WENT
XXIV. THE CAVE PROVES USEFUL
XXV. THE TABLES TURNED
XXVI. THE FATE OF AH LING
XXVII. FAREWELL TO SWAN ISLAND
XXVIII. THE "TITANIA"
XXIX. THE ADMIRAL'S PROMISE
XXX. THE END OF THE "MALFILIO"
XXXI. THE CAPTURE OF THE SECRET BASE
XXXII. AND LAST
Illustrations
SHE WAS A LIGHT CRUISER OF ABOUT 4000 TONS
_Frontispiece_
BLACK STROGOFF ADDRESSES THE "DONIBRISTLE'S" CREW
A DASH FOR FREEDOM
THE FATE OF AH LING
[Illustration: Plan of the Pirates' Island]
Plan of the Pirates' Island
A. _Inner Harbour_
B. _Tunnel_
C. _Prisoners' Compound_
D. _Blockhouses_
E. _Fence_
F. _Observation Hill_
G. _Cave_
H. _Coco Palms_
J. _Detached Cliff screening Harbour_
K. _Where "Donibristle" was scuttled_
L. _Main Channel through Reef_
M. _Gap in Reef through which Boat_
_left the Island_
N1, N2. _Smaller openings In Reef_
P. _The Reef_
Q. _Pirates' Huts & Stores_
[Illustration: Swan Island]
Swan Island
A. _Where Lifeboat was wrecked_
B. _Burgoyne washed ashore here_
C. _Minalto_ " " "
D. _Mostyn_ " " "
E. _The Cave_
F. _Hill_
G. _Pirate Schooner anchored here_
THE THIRD OFFICER
CHAPTER I
The S.S. "Donibristle"
To the accompaniment of a pungent whiff of hot oil, a miniature
cascade of coal dust and frozen snow, and the rasping sound of the
derrick chain, the last of the cargo for No. 3 hold of the S.S.
_Donibristle_ bumped heavily upon the mountain of crates that almost
filled the dark confined space.
"Guess that's the lot, boss," observed the foreman stevedore.
"Thanks be!" ejaculated Alwyn Burgoyne, third officer of the 6200-ton
tramp, making a cryptic notation in the "hold-book". "Right-o; all
shipshape there? All hands on deck and get those hatches secured.
Look lively lads!"
Burgoyne waited until the last of the working party had left the
hold, then, clambering over a triple tier of closely-stowed
packing-cases, he grasped the coaming of the hatch and with a spring
gained the deck.
"What a change from Andrew!" he soliloquized grimly, as he surveyed
the grimy, rusty iron deck and the welter of coal-dust and snow
trampled into a black slime. "All in a day's work, I suppose, and
thank goodness I'm afloat."
Three months previously Alwyn Burgoyne had been a sub-lieutenant in
the Royal Navy; hence his reference to "Andrew", as the Senior
Service is frequently designated by long-suffering bluejackets. Under
peace conditions and in the knowledge that the greatest menace with
which the British Empire was ever threatened was removed for all
time, the Admiralty were compelled to make drastic reductions both in
personnel and material. Numbers of promising young officers, trained
from boyhood to the manners and customs of ships flying the White
Ensign, had been "sent to the beach", or, in other words, their
services had been dispensed with. Even the sum of money paid to these
unfortunates was a sorry recompense for their blighted careers, since
circumstances and the fact that they were of an awkward age to embark
upon another profession were a severe handicap in life's race.
Burgoyne, however, was one of the luckier ones. Forsaking the lure of
gunnery, torpedo, and engineering, he was specializing in navigation
and seamanship when the "cut" came. Without loss of time he had sat
for and obtained first a Mate's and then a Master's Board of Trade
Certificate, and with these qualifications, aided by a certain amount
of influence, he obtained the post of Fourth Officer in the British
Columbian and Chinese Shipping Company.
On his first voyage in the S.S. _Donibristle_, from Vancouver to
Shanghai, Burgoyne gained a step in promotion. Viewed from a certain
point it was a regrettable promotion, since Alwyn had to step into a
dead man's shoes. But Roberts, the Third Officer, disappeared on the
homeward run--it was a pitch-dark night, and a heavy beam sea, and no
one saw him go--and Burgoyne "took on" as Third.
To fill the vacant post, Phil Branscombe, a Devonshire lad who had
come into the British Columbian and Chinese Shipping Company via a
wind-jammer and a Barry collier, was appointed as Fourth Officer, and
Branscombe was now about to start on his first voyage under the B.C.
& C.S.C. house-flag.
The _Donibristle_ was lying at Vancouver. She had been bunkered with
Nanaimo coal; the last of her cargo--mostly Canadian ironmongery and
machinery--was under hatches, and she was due to sail at daybreak.
"Cheerio, old thing!" exclaimed Branscombe as Burgoyne made his way
aft, his india-rubber sea-boots slithering and squelching on the
slush-covered deck. "All stowed? Good, same here. How about tea?"
As the chums made their way towards the companion, their attention
was attracted by the arrival of three people who were on the point of
stepping off the gangway, where the First Officer stood ready to
receive them.
One was a middle-aged gentleman of a decidedly military bearing,
obvious in spite of the fact that he wore a heavy greatcoat with
turned-up fur collar. Clinging to his arm--a necessary precaution in
view of the slippery state of the deck--was a lady, evidently his
wife. The third member of the party, disdaining any extraneous
support either animate or inanimate, was a girl of about nineteen or
twenty. She wore a long fur travelling coat, a close-fitting velour
hat, and thick fur gloves that reached almost to her elbows. As her
collar was turned up, there was little of her profile visible, but
what there was was enough to proclaim her to be a very good-looking
girl.
"Passengers, eh?" remarked Burgoyne. "Didn't know we were taking any
this trip."
"Eyes front, old man," exclaimed Branscombe in a low tone. "Dear old
thing! Remember the path of duty----"
"Is slippery," rejoined the Third Officer, as the Fourth, skidding on
the frozen snow in the midst of his homily, measured his length upon
the deck. "And be thankful you haven't your No. 1 rig on."
Descending the companion, the two chums gained the alley-way out of
which opened the officers' cabins. Here they encountered a stout,
jovial-faced man carrying a tea-tray.
"Is there plenty of hot water on in the bathroom, steward?" asked
Burgoyne. "Thanks--by the by, what names are on the passenger list?"
"Only five, sir," replied the steward. "There's a Mr. Tarrant, a Mr.
Miles, Colonel and Mrs. an' Miss Vivian, sir.... Tea's ready, sir."
"Thanks; pour me out a cup and let it stand, please," said Alwyn, as
he hurried off to the bathroom to remove all traces of five hours'
hard work in No. 3 hold.
Twelve minutes later Burgoyne, having washed and donned his best
uniform, entered the mess-room where the officers had all their meals
with the exception of dinner. It was the custom on board ships of the
British Columbian and Chinese Shipping Company for the officers to
dine with the captain and passengers in the saloon. Although the
_Donibristle_ was primarily a cargo-boat, she had accommodation for
twelve passengers. These she could carry without being obliged to
have a Board of Trade passenger certificate, and since the
_Donibristle_ was by no means a fast boat there was no acute
competition to secure passenger berths.
Most of the occupants of the mess-room--two engineers, the purser,
and two deck officers--had finished tea and were "fugging" round a
large stove. Branscombe, who had forestalled his chum by two minutes,
was taking huge mouthfuls of bread and jam, and drinking copious
draughts of tea with the rapidity of a man who never knows when he
will be interrupted by the call of duty, while, in order to take
every advantage of the brief spell of leisure, he was scanning a
newspaper conveniently propped up against a huge brown earthenware
teapot.
"Any news?" inquired Burgoyne.
"United Services draw with Oxford University."
"I'd liked to have seen the match," remarked the Third Officer. It
recalled memories of a hard-played game in which Sub-Lieutenant
Burgoyne, R.N., was one of the United Service team. That seemed ages
ago, although only eight months had elapsed. "And the M.C.C.?" he
inquired.
"No match. It was raining cats and dogs in Melbourne," replied
Branscombe.
Having heard the latest of two great events in the world of sport
that were taking place in almost diametrically opposite parts of the
globe, Burgoyne exclaimed:
"Well, any more news? Don't be a mouldy messmate. Hand over half that
paper--the part you've read."
"Take this one, Burgoyne," said Withers, the Second Engineer.
"There's another boat missing--a week overdue. That's the second this
month, an' both between 'Frisco and Kobe."
"Yes, the _Alvarado_," added the purser. "Wasn't that the vessel we
sighted off the Sandwich Islands, Burgoyne?"
"Yes, I was officer of the watch," he replied.
"Well, she's gone without a trace as far as we know," said Withers.
"And the _Kittiwake_ went in similar circumstances. If the _Alvarado_
had sent out an S.O.S. we should have got it, I suppose. What's the
distance--ah, here's our Signor Marconi or our Mark Antony, whatever
you please. Say, young fellah-me-lad, what's our wireless radius?"
This question was addressed to Mostyn, a tall slim youth who had just
entered the mess-room. His uniform proclaimed him to be one of the
wireless operators.
"Two hundred and fifty by day; six hundred by night," replied Mostyn,
who then proceeded with the characteristic fervour of a wireless man
to let fly a battery of technical terms and formulae.
"'Vast heaving, my lad," interrupted the Second Engineer, with a
jovial laugh. "You've floored me. I feel like that young Canuk must
have felt when he was shown over the ship last Monday."
"What was that?" inquired the purser.
"He showed great interest in my scrap heap," replied Withers. "The
greatest interest. I explained every mortal thing in the
engine-room--twenty-five minutes steady chin-wag. And when I'd
finished he just asked: 'And do they work by steam or gasoline?' I've
been off my feed ever since," he added pathetically.
"To get back to the _Alvarado_," said the purser "It's jolly strange
for a vessel to drop out of existence nowadays and leave no trace. We
can dismiss the mine theory. Fritz didn't try that game on in the
North Pacific, and it's hardly likely that the mine laid by the Japs
in '05 would be still barging about. Rammed a derelict? Blown up by
internal explosion? Turned turtle during a hurricane?"
"A hurricane, perhaps," replied Burgoyne. "We had it a bit stiff just
about that time--when Robert was lost overboard."
"Ships do vanish," continued the pessimistic purser. "Wireless and
other scientific gadgets notwithstanding. I remember----"
"Chuck it, old man!" interrupted Branscombe.
"Don't try to give us all cold feet. It's cold enough on deck--an'
it's my watch," he added dispassionately. The Fourth Officer pushed
aside his cup and plate, struggled into his greatcoat, and left the
mess-room. It was his job to superintend the clearing up of the decks
after the cargo had been stowed, and the stevedores had taken their
departure.
The rest of the mess relapsed into silence. Some were deep in the
evening papers, others were reading torn and thumb-marked novels. A
few, Burgoyne amongst them, retired to the more secluded part of the
room in order to write to their relatives and friends, and send the
mail ashore before the _Donibristle_ got under way.
"Any passengers?" asked Withers, breaking the prolonged silence.
"Yes, young fellah-me-lad," replied Holmes, the purser. "Boiled
shirts and stiff collars for everyone."
"Is that the menu, Holmes?" inquired Withers with well-feigned
innocence.
"It will be for you if you don't take care," rejoined the purser
severely. "We haven't a full passenger list, but we've got to keep
our end up, even though we're not a crack liner."
"Who are they?" asked Mostyn.
"A Colonel Vivian and his wife and daughter," replied Holmes. "They
are only going as far as Honolulu--dodging the Canadian winter I
should imagine. There's a Mr. Tarrant. He's in the Consular Service,
and is bound for Kobe. The last is Mr. Miles. I don't know what he
is, but I rather fancy he's a drummer working for a Montreal drug
store. Anyone know if the Old Man's aboard yet?"
"Yes, he came aboard with the Chief," replied the wireless officer,
"about five minutes before I came below."
"Why on earth didn't you say so before?" demanded Withers, making a
precipitate rush for the door. "I didn't expect Angus before eight
bells, and----"
"Evidently friend Withers has left undone those things that he ought
to have done," observed Holmes. "Get a move on, you fellows. Nothing
like punctuality for meals, 'specially when I want a run ashore after
dinner."
Twenty minutes later officers and passengers assembled in the saloon
for dinner. Although lacking the luxurious trappings of a first-class
liner's saloon, the _Donibristle's_ was quite a comfortable,
well-equipped apartment. Electric lights in frosted glass bulbs with
amber shades threw a warm, subdued light upon the long table. The
snow-white table-cloth looked dainty with glittering cutlery and
plate. Choice Californian flowers--bought that afternoon in Vancouver
by the messman, presumably to create a good initial impression upon
the passengers--completed the display.
At the head of the table sat Captain Roger Blair, R.N.R., a short,
thick-set Tynesider, whose war record included service in the North
Sea, the AEgean, and outer patrol work on the edge of the Arctic
Circle. He had been twice in collision and torpedoed on four
occasions; yet, until the surrender of the German Fleet, he had never
set eyes on a Hun submarine. He was inclined to be irritable as a
result of the nervous strain of four and a half years in
mine-infested waters under war conditions; but, in spite of being
nearly fifty-four years of age, he was accounted one of the finest
and most reliable skippers in the company's service.
On his right was Mrs. Vivian, a frail and rather subdued lady with a
distinctly nervous manner. Next to her was Colonel Vivian, huge,
burly, and bronzed. His features were clear cut, but a rather heavy
chin and a military moustache gave the casual observer an impression
that the colonel was a severe and stern man. In point of fact he was
when in command of a regiment, but in retirement he was jovial and
good-natured, and simply doted on his wife and daughter.
Hilda Vivian had been placed on the Captain's left, consequently
Alwyn Burgoyne, far down the table, saw but little of her except a
partial view of an attractive profile.
Mr. Tarrant, an aesthetic gentleman of about twenty-five or thirty,
sat on Miss Vivian's left. Next to him was Miles, an undersized,
white-faced individual with an unlimited amount of "push and go" as
far as his calling was concerned, and almost a complete apathy
towards everything else.
At the foot of the table was Mr. Angus, the Chief Engineer. He was,
like the majority of chiefs in the Mercantile Marine, Scotch. His
appearance, accent, and mannerisms all pointed to the undeniable fact
that he hailed from the Clyde. Five feet ten in height,
broad-shouldered, rugged-featured, and with sandy hair, he was both
the terror and admiration of the crowd of rapscallions who comprised
the rank and file of the _Donibristle's_ stokeholds.
Angus was reported to be "near". If he spent a dollar he took good
care to get a dollar's worth in return for his outlay. He never
parted with a cent without due consideration--and lengthy
consideration at that. But in greater matters he was generous in the
extreme. Whenever a subscription list came round for some worthy
cause--usually for the widow or dependent of one of the company's
former servants--the scrawled initials "J. A." invariably appeared
for a substantial amount from Jock Angus's funds. If a fireman, down
on his luck, was unable to provide himself with a kit suitable for
the climatic conditions and changes of the voyage, the Chief would
stealthily interview the purser and see that the man got an outfit at
the expense of dour Jock Angus.
And he knew his job from A to Z. Left alone with the necessary tools
he could transform a scrap heap into a set of engines and guarantee a
good head of steam. He had been in charge of the _Donibristle's_
engines for two years of almost constant running, and never once had
they broken down or stopped through mechanical defects.
Beneath the Scotsman's rugged exterior beat the heart of a kindly
man. Almost everyone on board took his troubles to Angus, knowing
that his confidence would be respected, and that the advice he
received was blunt, sympathetic, and sound, while the relations
between the Old Man and the Chief ran as smoothly as the well-tuned
triple-expansion engines of the good ship _Donibristle_.
The rest of the officers, with the exception of a few actually on
duty, were seated on either side of the long table--good and true men
all, typical of the great Mercantile Marine, without which the
British Empire would crumble into the dust. Most of them have already
been brought to the reader's notice; and since it is yet too early to
bring upon the stage the arch-villain Ramon Porfirio and his
satellites and myrmidons, they must be temporarily detained in the
wings.