The Old Man is Disturbed
Captain Antonius Bullock had turned in for the night. He had received
the reports of the officer of the watch and the engineer of the watch,
the time signals and weather reports from the Wireless Officer, and was
now free from the cares of command until such time as his steward
called him. He might be called within the next minute; but with luck
he hoped to remain undisturbed until six bells in the morning watch.
It was now 1 a.m. The _West Barbican_ had passed Ushant twenty miles
to port, and was entering the Bay of Biscay.
The weather was still cold, but the wind had moderated considerably,
coming off the land. The Bay was on its best behaviour, and
consequently the passengers, who were beginning to find their sea-legs,
were wandering farther afield than the limited expanse between the
saloon and their respective cabins.
The notice on the Old Man's door, "Don't knock, come in", had
disappeared. Captain Bullock had seen to that. It served its purpose
when the ship was getting ready for sea, but once the passengers came
on board the brusque invitation vanished.
Although the air without was raw it was cosy and warm inside the cabin.
The radiators, heated by steam from the boilers, kept the apartment at
an even temperature, while, as a concession to appearances, a fire
glowed in a polished, brass-mounted grate. Only no heat came from that
fire: it was a dummy, composed of coloured paper rolled into loose
balls and packed around an electric-light bulb. It had a comforting
look, and frequently visitors to the Old Man's cabin stood on the
hearthrug enjoying the heatless glow in utter ignorance of the fact
that no fire burned in that polished brass grate.
Over the door and scuttles the dark-blue baize curtains had been drawn.
The electric light had been switched off, and only the red glow from
the grate faintly illuminated the cabin.
Captain Bullock lay in his bunk, raising his head occasionally to sip
at a stiff glass of special Scotch. From early morn to midnight he was
a rigid teetotaller Even at dinner the decanters passed by him
untouched, but every night, even in the hottest weather, his steward
mixed a uniformly strong glass of whisky, hot water, and lemon.
Generally the Old Man was quickly asleep, but to-night he felt wakeful.
Not as a rule a deep thinker--he was essentially a man of action--he
found himself pondering over various matters.
He was beginning to realize that this was his last voyage. On the
_West Barbican's_ return to London he was to relinquish his command and
retire on pension. How he hated the idea! The sea was part of his
being. No one knew the call of the deep more than he. True, at times,
he had been "fed up" with the sea, but those were only passing moods.
Some men looked forward to superannuation from the time they entered
seriously into the battle of life. They had visions of peaceful if not
luxurious retirement, living happily and contentedly on their
hard-earned pensions. "And usually," thought Captain Bullock, "they
are dead in a couple of years--rusted out through sheer idleness."
No, he hated the idea of having to "go on the beach" for the rest of
his life. Settling down in the country and keeping fowls did not
appeal to him in the slightest. He might get a job as harbour-master
in some minor port, but these ports are limited in number. Besides, he
did not take kindly to the idea of being badgered by a petty Harbour
Board, the members of which were probably coal-dealers and corn-factors
who knew nothing about the sea.
"Here I am, as hard as nails, sound as a bell, and a better skipper
than I was twenty years ago," he soliloquized. "Why can't the Company
keep masters on till they show signs of cracking? They'd get something
for their money instead of paying it out in pensions."
Then his thoughts reverted to the lost opportunity of the
_Passionflower_ salvage job. True, there was the business of the
oil-tanker _Bivalve_ as a set-off, but he wondered what his owners
would think when they read of the case in the _Shipping Gazette_.
Suddenly his reveries were interrupted by the sound of the cabin door
lock being turned very cautiously. The sound was barely audible above
the varied noises without.
By this time Captain Bullock was in a drowsy state. Without raising
his head from the pillow, he was dimly aware that some one had entered
the cabin. It was unusual. Sometimes his steward had occasion to
enter during the night. Occasionally the officer of the watch or the
Wireless Officer brought a report, and in any case they explained their
presence verbally.
"Perhaps he thinks I am asleep and doesn't want to disturb me," thought
the drowsy man, and, without attempting to fix the intruder's identity,
he lay still, apathetically watching the other's movements.
The intruder crossed the cabin silently yet without hesitation. He
stood at the writing-desk for a brief instant and then withdrew.
"'Spose it's Anstey with a chit," decided Captain Bullock, and,
satisfied with his own explanation, he fell asleep.
At 6 a.m. the Chief Steward mustered his staff preparatory to the usual
routine. There was an absentee: the Captain's steward.
"Anyone seen Wilkins?" demanded the Chief Steward.
No one had. Some one dispassionately volunteered the information that
Wilkin's bunk had not been slept in. Men roused from slumber to
perform the irksome routine are apt to be apathetic before breakfast.
The Chief Steward dismissed his staff to their various duties, and
proceeded to search for the missing man.
He found Wilkins fully dressed and fast asleep on the floor of the
pantry. On a shelf stood an empty tumbler that smelt of whisky.
The Chief Steward stirred the sleeping man with his boot.
"Come along," he exclaimed. "Show a leg, there! Skipper's waiting to
be called."
Beyond a protesting grunt Wilkins showed no sign of recognition.
"Drunk as a lord," commented the Chief Steward. "Come on, man!" he
added sternly. "Pull yourself together. You've been after the Old
Man's whisky-bottle."
A friendship existed between the two men. The Chief Steward had
obtained Wilkins's post for him. In consequence the former made
allowances, which he would not have done in the case of another of his
subordinates.
Holding Wilkins under the arms the Chief Steward dragged him
unceremoniously along the deserted alley-way, and bundled him into his
own cabin. There he would be safe from detection.
Locking the door, the Chief Steward returned to the pantry, washed out
the tell-tale tumbler, and then summoned an assistant steward.
"Wilkins is ill," he announced briefly. "Take on Captain's steward's
duties until he's fit again."
At five minutes to seven Assistant Steward Scott, bearing a can of hot
water and a cup of tea, tapped at the Old Man's cabin door.
Captain Bullock, as fresh as a proverbial daisy, eyed the deputy
coldly. Any alteration of routine jarred him.
"Where's Wilkins?" he demanded.
"On the sick list, sir."
"Humph. Bath ready?"
"Yes, sir."
The Old Man donned his bridge coat over his pyjamas before making
tracks for the bathroom.
Suddenly he turned to his servant:
"So you were the man who came into my cabin during the middle watch?"
Scott stammered and went very red in the face. He was a meek,
inoffensive man, and stood in deep awe of those set in authority over
him.
"No, sir. Please, sir, I didn't," he protested. "I only took on at
four bells."
Captain Bullock made no audible comment. He went to the writing-desk
to see if anyone had left a chit there. There was none. He gave a
swift, comprehensive glance at the book-shelf where, among other
volumes, were the three separate code-books by which the owners and
consignors were able to communicate with the ship. They were in their
usual places.
The Old Man smiled grimly as he put a hastily formed suspicion from his
mind.
"All right," he said gruffly. "Carry on."