How the Steelwork Arrived
There was no doubt about it: Mr. Benjamin Skeets was a very crafty
fellow. By adopting the disguise of a woman, and acting up to the part
of a vulgar parvenue, he had completely covered his tracks, and had
thrown dust into the eyes of everyone with whom he had come in
contact--up to a certain point and then only with one exception.
Messrs. Skeets and Shale were no mere novices in crime, and their
daring _coup_ of defrauding the United Trusts Banking Company of the
round sum of L30,000, and their subsequent disappearance, had both
mystified and astonished the British public by its audacity, and had
completely baffled the greatest detective experts of Scotland Yard.
Skeets had lived up to his disguise very thoroughly. Even the
subsequent engagement of Miss Olive Baird had been undertaken solely
with the idea of elaborating the smaller but by no means unnecessary
details of his disguise. Since there was no reliable description of
Mr. Joseph Shales, who was the unseen partner in the deal with the
banking firm, it was a fairly simple matter for him to get out of the
country under the guise of the husband of "Mrs. Shallop".
It had been the intention of the precious pair to leave the _West
Barbican_ at Cape Town; hence Mrs. Shallop's anxiety to get a wireless
message through as soon as the ship came within radio range of Table
Bay. But the absence of a reply from Skeets's confederate at Cape Town
had so startled the fugitives that they decided to go on until they
found a convenient port, preferably in India, where they could lie low
and live on their ill-gotten plunder.
The foundering of the _West Barbican_ had upset their calculations.
Practically the whole of the pair's booty went down with the ship. Mr.
Shallop, otherwise Shales, having no further use for his destitute
partner, went off in one of the ship's boats which was eventually
picked up. Arriving at Cape Town he took the ill-advised step of
looking-up a pal. The latter was already languishing in a South
African penal establishment, and Mr. Shales, upon making inquiries, was
enlightened by an acquaintance of the convict, who chanced to be an
astute detective.
The outcome of this meeting was that Mr. Shallop, under the mellow
influence of strong waters, said more than he would have done had he
been in his sober senses. Recovering from his maudlin state he found
himself in custody.
Having no belief in the worn proverb concerning honour amongst thieves,
and perhaps fully convinced that his partner in crime had been lost in
the disaster to the _West Barbican_, Joseph Shales confessed to a minor
part in the United Trusts Bank frauds, at the same time laying the
blame upon the missing Benjamin Skeets.
The immediate result was that directly the news was cabled that more
survivors from the _West Barbican_, including Mrs. Shallop, had been
landed at Pangawani, the Kilba Protectorate Police were instructed to
arrest the much-wanted Benjamin.
Before Mostyn left to go on board the _Quilboma_ he had an opportunity
of saying farewell to Olive, and at the same time telling her of the
astounding news.
"And to think that she--or, rather, he--bluffed the whole jolly lot of
us," he added. "Even the Old Man and Doctor Selwyn were taken in
completely."
"Not all of us, Peter," rejoined the girl softly. "I knew--but not at
first."
"By Jove!" ejaculated the astonished Mostyn. "You did? When did you?"
"Not until the _West Barbican_ was sinking," replied Olive. "I found
it out then: I couldn't help it. Of course, I didn't know exactly what
to do, and I knew nothing whatever of the crime she--I mean, he--had
committed. But I meant to tell you some day, Peter."
"We are well rid of him," remarked Mostyn.
"Yes," agreed the girl thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, she added
frankly. "But if it had not been for Mrs. Shallop I might never have
met you, Peter."
Mostyn departed radiantly upon the voyage on which depended the fate of
the Brocklington Ironworks Company's contract.
It was not until the day following that Davis, in his official
capacity, completed the inspection of the dhow. When he came to knock
off the lid of the box in which Mostyn had nailed up the gold and
silver coins, he found that, although the seals were intact, the money
had vanished.
Davis gave a low whistle.
"That stuff's been lifted before the dhow put into Pangawani," he
declared to his assistant. "The seals being intact proves that."
His companion laughed.
"After sneaking L30,000 friend Skeets wouldn't scruple to lift that
little lot," he remarked.
"S'pose so," conceded Davis. "We'll go and report the loss; but I'm
afraid that Mrs. Shallop has got well away with it this time."
Which was exactly what had happened. As far as the authorities at
Pangawani were concerned Benjamin Skeets had vanished, seemingly into
thin air. Although the daily train from Pangawani up-country had been
rigorously searched at every intermediate station, soon after the
flight of the much wanted man was made known, no one unable to give a
good account of himself or herself had been discovered. With the
exception of the _Quilboma_ no vessel had left the port during the
previous twenty-four hours. Native police and trackers had scoured the
bush for miles in the vicinity of Pangawani without picking up any
traces of the fugitive.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Peter Mostyn was speeding south on board the S.S. _Quilboma_.
From the moment the harbour launch had placed him on the deck of the
tramp outside Pangawani bar, he was entirely cut off from news of the
rest of the world. The _Quilboma_ was not fitted with wireless, her
owners, since the relaxation of Board of Trade regulations on the
termination of the war, having dispensed with what they considered to
be an unprofitable, expensive, and unnecessary outfit.
The tramp was only of 1500 tons gross register, and with a speed of
nine knots. Her engines were of an antiquated, reciprocating type,
while her coal consumption was out of all proportion to her carrying
capacity. Had she been plying in home waters she would never have
passed the official re-survey; consequently her owners, one of whom was
her skipper, took good care to confine the _Quilboma's_ activities to
the Red Sea and Indian Ocean.
In fine weather, and aided by the current constantly setting southward
through the Mozambique Channel, the _Quilboma_ was actually making
between eleven and a half and twelve knots "over the ground". Three
days after leaving Pangawani she arrived at the entrance to Bulonga
Harbour.
Six hours elapsed before she was berthed alongside the rotting wharf,
to dry-out in a bed of noxious mud as the tide left her.
Mostyn got to work promptly, and with his accustomed enthusiasm. He
had the good luck to find the Portuguese agent on the spot. The
preposterous storage charges were discussed, haggled over, and settled;
gangs of native workmen were hired, and the task of loading up the
_Quilboma_ with her bulky but precious cargo began.
It was now that Peter met with a sudden and unexpected check, for, on
inspecting the metalwork, he found that even in a comparatively short
time the moist, tropical atmosphere had attacked the steel in spite of
the coating of oxide it had received before leaving England.
To deliver it in this state meant a possible, nay, probable rejection
by the consignees; but fortunately the skipper of the _Quilboma_ rose
to the occasion.
"I've a couple o' kegs of oxide aboard," he announced. "Put the
niggers on to it, and let 'em give the stuff another coat."
"Over the rust?" queried the conscientious Peter,
The Old Man winked solemnly.
"Who's to know?" he asked. "Paint's like charity: covers a multitude
of defects."
"That won't do for me," declared Peter. "I'll have every bit of the
scale chipped off before the least flick of paint is put on."
The skipper shrugged his shoulders but refrained from audible comment.
Although in his mind he considered his charterer to be a silly young
owl, especially as he was bound to a time limit, he had to confess that
Mostyn was doing the right thing.
It took the native workmen two days of unremitting toil (Peter and the
Portuguese agent took care that it was unremitting) to clean the
steelwork and recoat it with oxide. Then the loading commenced.
With the perspiration pouring down his face, Mostyn supervised the
removal of the ponderous girders from the enclosure, the Chief Mate
being responsible for the storage of the material in the hold.
Presently the Old Man, puffing like a grampus, hurried up to Mostyn.
"Those four long bits won't stow," he announced. "Our main hold ain't
long enough, not by five feet."
"Will they stow on deck?" asked Mostyn.
"And capsize the old hooker in the first bit o' dirty weather we run
into?" rejoined the skipper caustically. "You don't catch me doing
that, my dear sir. We'll have to leave 'em behind, and the _Thylied_
can pick 'em up. She's about due to leave Port Elizabeth, and ought to
be here in a week's time."
"Look here, Skipper," said Peter firmly. "You contracted to bring this
consignment from Bulonga to Pangawani. I gave you the dimensions of
the longest girders before we came to terms, and you declared to me
that you could stow the whole of the consignment. And you'll have to
do it."
"It ain't a matter of life an' death," expostulated the Old Man. "I'll
make a liberal abatement in the freightage charges and--
"You won't," declared Mostyn firmly. "You won't, because you've got to
ship every bit of that steelwork; so get busy."
The skipper of the _Quilboma_ was one of those easy-going, obliging
sort of fellows who can rarely make up their minds and act unless
dominated by a person of strong, individual character. He was inclined
to let things drift, and would assuredly choose the line of least
resistance regardless of the consequences. As a navigator he was
passable; as a seaman he lacked the alertness and decision necessary to
shine at his profession. For years he had been in command of the
_Quilboma_, and not once in that time had he found himself in a really
tight corner. It was luck--pure luck--which might at a very
inopportune moment let him down very badly.
"What do you suggest then?" he growled.
"I suggested deck cargo," replied Peter. "You turned it down. I don't
question your authority or your wisdom on that point. The rest is up
to you."
"A' right," rejoined the Old Man. "You just hang on here and keep
these niggers up to scratch. I'll fix it up somehow."
And "fix it up somehow" he did; for when at sundown Mostyn returned to
the ship he found that the long, heavy girders _were_ stowed. The Old
Man had had the bulkhead between the main hold and the boiler-room cut
through--it did not require much labour, so worn and rusty were the
steel plates of that bulkhead--with the result that one end of each of
the troublesome girders was within six inches of the for'ard boiler.
At length the loading-up was completed. Steam was raised in the wheezy
boilers; the Portuguese customs officials were "suitably rewarded", and
clearance papers obtained; and at four in the afternoon the _Quilboma_
crossed the bar of Bulonga Harbour, starboarded helm, and shaped a
course for Pangawani.
Head winds and an adverse current made a vast difference to the speed
of the old tramp. She had taken but three days to run south; five days
still found her plugging ahead with Pangawani a good fifty miles off.
The _Quilboma_ was now making bad weather of it. Her foredeck was
constantly under water, as she pitched and wallowed against the head
seas. The glass was falling rapidly. Unless the ship made harbour
before the threatened storm broke, it would be impossible to cross the
bar until the weather moderated.
The Old Man began to look anxious.
At midday Peter was with the skipper on the bridge when the Chief
Engineer approached the Old Man.
"Coal's running low," he reported without any preliminaries.
"How long can you carry on for, Mr. Jackson?" inquired the captain.
"For five hours; less maybe," was the reply. "She's simply mopping up
coal on this run. Goodness knows why, 'cause I haven't been pressing
her overmuch."
The Old Man nodded. He quite understood. To run the antiquated
engines at anything approaching full speed ahead might easily result in
the patched-up boilers refusing duty altogether.
"Five hours'll about do," he declared. "Keep her at it, Mr. Jackson."
The Chief Engineer departed. He was not so sure that he could "keep
her at it". Under normal conditions the coal taken on board at
Pangawani ought to have been more than enough for the round trip.
Unaccountably the consumption was much above the average, with the
awkward result that the bunkers were nearly empty.
"Pangawani ain't Barry Roads," remarked the Old Man to his charterer.
"There isn't a tug at Pangawani; but I'd bet my bottom dollar that, if
we were this distance from Cardiff, there'd be a round dozen o' tugs
buzzing round an' clamouring to give us a pluck in. No, laddie, we'll
have to do it on our own, and we'll jolly well do it, too!"
"Evidently the Old Man's got a 'do or die' spasm," thought Peter,
bearing in mind his previous experience with the weak-willed master of
the S.S. _Quilboma_. "Let's hope it will last."
By four in the afternoon the Old Man sang to a different tune. The
_Quilboma_ was now within ten miles of Pangawani; but so low was the
pressure in her steam-gauges that she was making a bare five knots.
"I'll signal the first old hooker we fall in with and get her to give
us a tow," he decided.
"Not much chance of sighting a vessel off Pangawani, is there?" asked
Mostyn.
"You never know your luck," quoted the Old Man sententiously, as he
stared apprehensively at the storm clouds banking up to wind'ard.
A few minutes later the skipper of the S.S. _Quilboma_ underwent
another change of character.
He blew the whistle of the engine-room voice-tube.
"How goes it, Jackson? Last shovelful out of the bunker? How are you
off for oil? Yes, any sort. Fair amount--good. Well, stand by: I'll
fix you up."
The threatening storm had completely roused the Old Man to definite,
practical action. He surpassed himself, and, incidentally, surprised
himself and others into the bargain.
Shouting to some of the hands he ordered them to bring axes and to
smash up one of the quarter-boats.
"Don't stand there lookin' into the air," he bawled angrily. "Lay aft
and do what you're told. I know what I'm doin'. Carve up that blank
boat and pass the dunnage down to the stokehold, and be mighty slick
about it."
The men, realizing the object of what had previously seemed to be a
wanton act of destruction, set to work with a will. In a very few
minutes the quarter-davits on the port side were looking very gaunt and
forlorn, while a good five hundredweights of wood soaked in crude oil
helped to feed the ravenous furnaces.
Half an hour later another boat shared the fate of the first, while, in
addition, the crew collected various inflammable gear and passed it
below, where sweating firemen threw the impromptu fuel into the
furnaces. Bales of cotton waste soaked in oil were added to leaven the
whole lump, until the _Quilboma's_ stumpy, salt-rimed funnel threw out
volumes of smoke that spread for miles astern like a grimy,
evil-smelling pall.
The _Quilboma_ was now within sight of her goal. Broad on the port bow
could be discerned the long, low beach fringed with a quavering line of
milk-white foam and backed by the waving coco-palms and the picturesque
bungalows of Kilba's principal port.
"How long will that little lot last you, Mr. Jackson?" inquired the Old
Man per voice-tube. "Forty minutes? Ay, I'll see to that."
He pointed to one of the lifeboats. The deck-hands, grasping the
significance of this display of dumb-show, threw themselves upon the
boat. Axes gleamed and fell with a succession of mingled thuds and
crashes. Planks, timbers, knees, breast-hooks, thwarts, masts, and
oars--all went below to the still insatiable maw of the devouring
element.
The skipper of the _Quilboma_ made no attempt to signal for a pilot.
For one reason, he knew the dangerous entrance intimately; for another,
it was doubtful whether the pilot could come out and board the vessel.
Yet another: the ship could not afford to wait, with her steam pressure
falling and the storm perilously close.
"Starboard--meet her--at that--steady!"
The skipper, standing beside the two quartermasters at the helm, was
about to take his sorely tried craft over the dangerous bar. It
required pluck, but there was no option if she were to make port at
all. It had to be now or never, for, if the _Quilboma_ failed to make
the bar, she would either be dashed to pieces on the reef or drift
helplessly at the mercy of the gale.
With the wind now broad on the starboard beam the old tramp rolled
horribly. Peter, hanging on to the bridge-rail, fancied that every
piece of steelwork in the hold had broken adrift. Groaning, thudding,
quivering, swept by sheets of blinding spray, the _Quilboma_ staggered
towards the danger-zone. At one moment her propeller was almost clear
of the water; at the next the labouring engines seemed to be pulled up,
as the madly racing blades sank deep beneath the surface of the
broiling sea.
Now she was in the thick of it. Tossed about like a cork, wallowing
like a barrel, the old tramp was almost unmanageable. One of the
quartermasters was juggling with the wheel of the steam steering-gear
like a man possessed, as he strove to keep the old hooker on her
course. To port and starboard the ugly reef was showing its teeth, as
the remorseless breakers crashed and receded with a continual roar of
thunder.
Suddenly a thud, different from the rest of the hideous noises, shook
the ship from stem to stern. For a moment--to Peter the pause seemed
interminable--she seemed to hang up. Then, with a sickening, sideways
lurch she dragged over the hard sand into the comparatively deep and
sheltered waters beyond.
"Done it, by Jove!" exclaimed the Old Man, as he rang down for
half-speed ahead. "We're in."
But he was trembling like a person in a fit.
Twenty minutes later the S.S. _Quilboma_ berthed alongside the quay.
The order to draw fires was a superfluous one. The furnaces had burned
themselves out.