captain. Vat is ze matter?”
“I’ve a touch of fever again,” replied the skipper, avoiding the other’s
eye. “I’m just seeing if there’s any quinine in the medicine chest!” He
lied bravely, but felt horribly nervous all the same.
“Vell,” replied the officer, “I ’ope you vill soon be vell. Vere is ze
quinine?”
The captain’s heart nearly stopped with anxiety, for the foreigner went
to the medicine chest and began examining the labels on the different
bottles and phials.
Supposing he suspected? The thought was too awful.
[Illustration: “It’s laudanum. Here, take it and hide it somewhere.”
_To face page 77_
]
But Horatio, although he felt as if his knees would give way, retained
his presence of mind, and snatching up the nearest bottle, held it up
and pretended to read the label. It was not quinine, but that did not
matter, and taking it across to the captain he thrust it into his hand.
“Here it is, sir,” he remarked.
To his relief, the lieutenant gave up his search.
“Ah, does Inglesh words!” he exclaimed. “I can speak ze Inglesh ver’
vell, but to read him is more deefecult!”
“Yes,” agreed the skipper with a nervous grin. “They are a bit hard to
understand.”
“Vell,” resumed the other pleasantly, “I ’ope you vill soon be vell. Ef
zere is anyzing you vant, please to let me know. I say good morning
now!” He made a courtly bow and left the cabin.
“Oh, lor’!” gasped the boy with a sigh of relief, as the footsteps died
away. “I thought he’d spot wot we was up to!”
“Now,” whispered Sims. “Right at the back at the left of the top row,
you’ll see a small blue bottle with an orange-coloured label.”
Horatio dived his hands into the cabinet and withdrew it with the bottle
in his grasp.
“Is this it, sir?” he asked eagerly.
“I think so,” said Sims. “Bring it here.”
The boy brought it across, and examining the label the captain saw it
was the one he wanted.
“D’you know what this is?” he asked, tapping it.
“No, sir.”
“It’s laudanum. There’s enough in this to send the whole lot of ’em to
sleep. Lucky it’s a fairly weak solution, so it won’t actually kill
’em. Here, take it,” he continued, “hide it somewhere!”
Horatio thrust the bottle into the front of his tattered shirt.
“What must I do with it, sir?” he asked mysteriously, for he felt as if
he was assisting to blow up the Houses of Parliament, or something
equally desperate.
“Shove it in their food, somehow. D’you think you can do it?”
“They orl ’as corfee arter their supper!” whispered the boy, with his
eyes opening very wide. “’Ow’ll that do, sir?”
“Very well, I should think,” answered Sims. “What time do they have it?”
“’Bout eight o’clock, sir.”
“Well, empty the bottle in their coffee when you make it. You take the
men’s dinners to the forecastle, don’t you?”
Horatio nodded.
“Well, tell ’em, then,” hissed the skipper, “to be ready to make a dash
for the deck at half-past eight this evening; d’you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell the officers too, if you get a chance. Now run along. They may
smell a rat if you’re here too long. You quite understand what to do,
don’t you?”
“Orl rite, sir. I understan’. I’ve got it orl fixed up in me ’ead!” And
so saying the boy departed.
Sims lay back on his bunk with a sigh of relief. The plan seemed so very
simple; but yet, somehow, too simple to be successful.
Would it succeed? He wondered.
IV
The weary day drew on, and to the captain the hours seemed interminable.
He tried to read, but the words conveyed nothing to his brain, for his
feverish anxiety would not allow him to concentrate his mind upon his
book.
His meals were brought to him by Horatio, who informed him that the men
had been told of what was to take place, but the day passed slowly, and
he was not sorry when the sound of voices and the clattering of knives
and forks outside in the saloon told him that the foreigners were at
their supper.
His watch was hanging on the bulkhead, and at three minutes past eight
precisely he heard chairs being pushed back and footsteps leaving the
saloon. Then came dead silence, only disturbed by the ripple of water as
the ship drove along and the footsteps of someone walking up and down on
the poop.
He waited in breathless anxiety. Ten minutes past eight, twenty past.
Would the time never pass? The minute hand of his watch seemed to be
moving terribly slowly, somehow.
He was just beginning to feel nervous, when the footsteps above ceased.
He listened intently. Twenty-five minutes past!
He crept out of his bunk and tiptoed noiselessly to the door.
Half-past eight, but nothing happened.
He trembled violently in his overwhelming excitement. Suppose the men
had decided that the risk was too great. Suppose--a hundred and one
possibilities flashed through his mind.
The hand of the watch crept on to two minutes past the half-hour, and
just as he had given up hope, he heard the sudden rush of feet on the
ladder leading to the poop.
Nerving himself for an effort, he took a run and hurled himself at the
door, hearing as he did so a confused shouting on the poop, followed by
two revolver shots. He was no light weight, and the stout panels ripped
and crashed as he flung himself at them, and, falling through the
debris, he found himself on all fours in the saloon. Picking himself up
he dashed out on deck and up the ladder to the poop, and what he saw
brought a wave of thankfulness to his heart. The British were in
possession. The prize-master lay senseless by the wheel, while the
warrant officer, who had evidently been on watch at the time of the
attack, had been disarmed, and was now being bound by some of the
_Evelyn MacDonald’s_ crew.
Farther aft, two more of the enemy lay prone with their weapons beside
them, and looking along the upper deck he saw more of his own men
binding the others.
“What’s happened?” he inquired breathlessly, making his way towards the
nearest group of men.
“Lor’ bless ye, sir!” exclaimed Ginger Smith excitedly; “they wus orl as
’elpless as babes. Th’ orficer ’ere fired ’is pistol afore we biffed ’im
on th’ ’ead, but orl th’ others wus lyin’ like cawpses! Lor’, it wus a
gran’ idea of ’Oratio’s, an’ no bloomin’ herror!”
“But where is Horatio?” asked the captain, looking round and not seeing
the boy.
“’E wus on deck when we belted this ’ere cove on th’ nut,” remarked one
of the other seamen.
“What’s become of him, I wonder?” said Sims anxiously, for he had a
sudden horrible feeling that the boy had been killed or flung overboard.
He left the poop and ran forward to the galley and put his head inside.
Twilight was fast approaching, but he saw a small white figure sitting
on a locker.
“Chivers!” he said concernedly, for there was something about the
youth’s attitude he did not like. “Chivers! Is that you?”
“Yus, sir, it’s me,” said the figure in a husky whisper.
“What’s the matter with you?” queried the captain sympathetically.
“It ’urts somethink crool!” whimpered Horatio.
“What hurts, sonny?”
“Please, sir, that cove wi’ a black beard fired ’is pistol an’ th’
bullet went through me arm!” He showed his left arm, from a neat
puncture in which the blood was slowly trickling through his fingers.
“Poor little chap!” said Sims huskily. “Come on, I’ll help you aft, and
we’ll put a bandage on it and soon make it better. Don’t forget, my
boy,” he added, “it was you who saved the ship!”
“Thank you, sir,” whispered Horatio, as his shipmates clustered round
eager to help.
V
Little more remains to be said. Horatio’s wound did not prove very
serious, for the bullet had gone through without touching the bone, and
when he had been bandaged, the drugged Germans were clapped below in
the forecastle with an armed seaman to guard them, and once more the
ship was turned round on her course for the Cape of Good Hope.
Some days later the captain of H.M.S. _Yorkshire_, a 22-knot cruiser, on
her way to Simon’s Bay, was rather surprised when a signalman knocked at
his cabin door and informed him that a British steamer was flying a
signal to the effect that she had prisoners she wished to transfer.
“Prisoners!” he remarked, in a surprised voice. “Humph, some of their
own fellows kicked over the traces, I suppose!”
Nevertheless, the cruiser’s course was altered to close the tramp, and
stopping abreast of her, she lowered a boat.
The cutter soon arrived alongside the _Evelyn MacDonald_, and a little
midshipman, followed by two armed marines, clambered on board.
“I’ve got seventeen prisoners for you,” remarked Sims, when they had
saluted each other.
“Seventeen what?” cried the small officer in amazement, fingering his
dirk.
“Seventeen officers and men of the German navy!”
The middy opened his eyes in astonishment. “But how the dickens did they
get here?” he demanded.
Sims told him what had happened.
“Well, this is the rummiest business I’ve ever heard of,” declared the
future Nelson. “Oh, lor’, though,” he added, “it’s a bit tough her
capturing you, isn’t it?”
“I should jolly well think it was, mister,” agreed the skipper with a
smile.
“By the way, captain,” remarked the midshipman, as the prisoners were
being transferred to the boat, “I should awfully like to shake hands
with that Horatio of yours!”
Horatio, much to his disgust and blushing furiously, was pushed forward
and solemnly introduced to the young officer, who gravely saluted, and
then wrung him by the hand.
“I say, old chap,” he suddenly remarked, bursting with curiosity, “you
might let me have a look at the hole in your arm!”
Horatio was forced to untie his bandage and exhibit the neat little
puncture.
“I’d give a year’s pay for that!” sighed the middy, for he had never
been in action himself.
The officers and men of the _Evelyn MacDonald_ broke into a roar of
laughter, in which even the solemn-faced marines joined.
Half-an-hour later the prisoners had been safely transferred, and the
man-of-war, with her crew cheering themselves hoarse--for the story had
become known all over the ship--was steaming off to the southward.
Soon afterwards the steamer followed suit, and in due course arrived at
her destination.
Horatio, I hear, is now serving in the Royal Navy, but he still bears a
scar on his left arm, and he is not a little proud of it.
V
THE SALVAGE OF THE _CASHMERE_
“Well,” remarked Captain Morris of the tug _Evening Star_, as he slowly
refilled his pipe, “things have been pretty bad wi’ us fur th’ last six
months. As ye know, mate, I sank all me capital in this old hooker when
me poor missus died. The craft’s cost me more’n I care to think about,
what wi’ th’ coal, upkeep, an’ wages, and we’ve not had a job wuth
calling a job fur a long time. There’s Tom’s schoolin’ to think about,
too,” he continued, glancing at his sixteen-year-old son, who sat on the
cushioned locker beside him.
Johnson, the mate, nodded, but said nothing.
“Why don’t you let me take that job at the shipbuilding yard, father?”
said the boy. “I should earn enough to live on, and then I should cost
you nothing.”
“I don’t grudge the money, my son,” continued the skipper; “don’t think
that. You’ve bin a good lad, an’ ’tis money well spent. I did want to
get ye that job along o’ th’ Wireless Telegraphy Company. The work here
in the yard’ll lead to nothing, an’ ye’ll be stuck here all yer life.”
Tom himself did not fancy the idea of spending his days in the little
seaport town of Halmouth, though, to save his father expense, he was
quite prepared to enter Mr. Saunders’ shipbuilding yard.
“But,” he said, “if nothing else turns up, I must take what I can.”
“I’m afraid so,” replied Morris with a sigh.
“What are ye thinkin’ o’ doin’, then, cap’n?” broke in the mate. “Goin’
to chuck the sea?”
“I’ll have to sell this craft an’ get a job ashore,” growled the
skipper. “The Tug an’ Lighter Company have made me an offer for her,
an’, though ’tis two hundred less than I gave for her two year ago, I’ll
have to take it. Buyin’ an’ sellin’ are two different things, an’ she’s
runnin’ sweeter now than ever she was; besides, look at the money I’ve
spent on her.”
The mate muttered something under his breath, for he did not like the
idea of serving under some other skipper.
“Well,” continued Morris, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead, and
rising to his feet and stretching himself, “’tis close on time; we’d
best be getting off. Tom, my son, you’d best turn in; it’ll give ye a
chance of gettin’ to sleep afore we starts lollopin’ about outside.”
“No, father,” exclaimed the boy; “I’m not a bit tired, and I’d much
rather stay up with you.”
“Right ye are, then,” replied his father with a smile; “but when I was
your age I liked my bed a fair sight more’n you do.”
With this concluding remark he went on deck, followed by Tom and the
mate.
The _Evening Star_ lay anchored in the harbour, while all round her
glittered the lights of the coasting craft, taking shelter from the bad
weather outside.
The little vessel rolled gently on the slight swell coming in from
seaward, while overhead the detached masses of cloud, scurrying across
the face of the sky on the strong south-westerly wind, showed that it
was blowing a full gale. The glass was also falling rapidly, so there
was every prospect of the weather outside being bad.
Tom, at the time of which I write, was studying at a school some
distance away from Halmouth, and was now home on his holidays. He was
trying for a position in a wireless telegraphy company, a profession in
which the prospects were good, and being naturally intelligent and a
hard worker, he had every prospect of success in the entrance
examination which was due to be held in six months’ time.
The news that his father would not be able to afford his school fees any
more came as rather a shock; but, though it was a bitter disappointment,
he put a brave face upon it.
As a rule he spent his holidays with his unmarried aunt, who had a
little house in Halmouth; but, if the truth must be told, he was not
over-fond of the austere old lady, who had such strange ideas as to how
boys should behave; so more often than not he lived on board the
_Evening Star_ with his father, and looked upon the occasional trips to
sea as a great treat.
Once on deck, the skipper glanced round with his practised eye.
“I don’t like the look of the weather,” he observed to Johnson; “look at
all that wrack up there to wind’ard.”
“Looks pretty bad,” agreed the mate.
“We must go out,” said the skipper, “for all the weather may be. Are ye
all ready for gettin’ the anchor up?”
“All ready, cap’n.”
“All right; get her up, then,” ordered Morris, making his way to the
little bridge, followed by his son. “We’re in for a dirty night, my
lad,” he observed, “an’ we’d best get our oilskins on now.”
He disappeared into the wheelhouse, and presently reappeared with two
bundles.
“Here ye are, boy,” he said, throwing one into Tom’s arms; “they’ll be a
bit big for ye, but ye’ll want ’em afore the night’s out.”
Tom put them on, and, with a sou’wester crammed down over his ears, took
his place on the bridge alongside his father.
A quarter of an hour later the tug was threading her way through the
crowded anchorage, and soon afterwards passed the bobbing buoys at the
harbour mouth.
Once in the open water, the combined forces of the wind and sea began to
make themselves felt, and whiffs of spray rattled on the painted canvas
weather screens of the bridge like volleys of small shot, and this soon
developed into a regular shower of water as the little ship drove her
way seaward at ten knots.
“How d’ye like it, Tom?” asked the skipper. “Feelin’ seasick?”
“Seasick!” exclaimed Tom indignantly. “I’m enjoying myself fine; much
better than being with Aunt Susan, and having to be in bed by half-past
eight!”
Morris laughed, and clutching the bridge rail with one brawny hand to
steady himself, motioned to the helmsman to put the wheel over.
The bows of the little ship swung round as she took up her new course,
and as she was now heading the sea, she rolled and pitched horribly. One
instant the bows of the tug were under water, while the next they would
be flung high in the air as a gigantic sea raced in from the gloom
ahead.
Shipping heavy masses of water, and with the spray driving over her
funnel top, the brave little vessel fought her way westward. The water
washed round the sea-booted legs of those on the bridge, but holding on
to the rails, they peered ahead through the darkness.
Nothing could be seen except the dark gloom of the land and the flashes
from a lighthouse away on the starboard bow, while from the
south-westward the enormous hillocks of water, the broken water on their
summits showing grey in the darkness of the night, advanced on the
labouring tug.
At midnight the skipper turned over the watch to the mate, and leaving
orders to be called at two o’clock, retired to his tiny cabin.
Tom also went below, and taking off his dripping oilskins, wedged
himself firmly on the cushioned lockers in the little saloon. He was
dog-tired, and in spite of the violent movement, was soon fast asleep.
By the time the skipper returned to the bridge the _Evening Star_ was
well out at sea, and when the mate had gone below the engines were eased
to dead slow. The movement instantly became
[Illustration: “The fiery trail of a rocket leapt out from the
darkness.”
_To face page 89_
]
gentler, and the tug rode over the seas without shipping a drop of
water.
Morris stumped up and down the bridge smoking his pipe, stopping every
now and then to look round the horizon; but nothing rewarded his gaze
except the lights of a few ships making their way up Channel.
Three o’clock came, and by this time the sky overhead had commenced to
clear, and presently stars appeared.
The skipper noted these changes with a grunt of satisfaction, and was
just about to continue his walk when he suddenly stopped dead. His eye
had been caught by a shower of bright falling stars far ahead, in the
deep blue sky on the horizon.
“By gum! What’s that?” he muttered.
He had not long to wait, for hardly were the words out of his mouth when
the fiery trail of a rocket leapt out from the darkness. He watched it
until it burst in a shower of white stars, and then, motioning to the
helmsman to steer straight for it, jumped to the engine-room telegraph
and put it to “full speed ahead.” He then took the syren lanyard and
gave it several lusty pulls.
The hoarse braying of the powerful instrument bellowed out in a series
of loud “whoops,” and before the noise had died away, Tom, the mate, and
the engineer came rushing on to the bridge.
“What is it?” they all asked in chorus.
“Ship in distress,” said the skipper abruptly, as the tug forged ahead.
“She’s bin firin’ rockets.”
As he spoke there was another trail of fire, followed by a shower of
stars, as a third rocket climbed upwards and then burst.
“It may mean a salvage job for us,” ejaculated Morris, feeling strangely
excited. “Mate, get a blue light to answer them.”
The engineer had vanished on the mention of the word “salvage,” and soon
the little tug was quivering as she leapt forward at her best speed.
Johnson quickly reappeared, and before long a blue light had been
ignited and was spluttering in his hand. The flare shone out over the
heaving sea, illuminating the wave tops as they rushed by, and presently
it was answered by a flare from something dead ahead.
“She’s seen us, whoever she is!” exclaimed Morris.
The _Evening Star_ was rapidly approaching, and in about twenty minutes
a dull black blur, punctuated by row after row of lighted portholes,
became visible in the darkness right ahead.
“She’s a thunderin’ great ship!” gasped the mate, gazing at her in
astonishment.
“One of the Australian mail boats, I think,” remarked the skipper, who
was looking at her through his binoculars. “I can see two masts and
funnels, and--yes, by gum! she’s showing her two red not-under-control
lights!” he added, with a pleased, excited laugh.
“Mail boat!” exclaimed Johnson; “that’ll mean a tidy lot o’ money for us
if we give her a tow!”
“It will, mate!” agreed Morris joyfully.
Tom, too, felt pleased, for the opportunity for which they had all
wished had evidently come.
Steaming on, the tug was soon close alongside the great liner, round
whose hull the sea broke in masses of spray. Taking his ship close,
Morris took a megaphone and stepped to the end of his bucketing bridge.
“What ship is that?” he bellowed. “D’you want assistance?”
“Yes,” came back a voice from the towering bulk above. “We’re the
_Cashmere_. We struck sunken wreckage about a couple of hours ago, and
our rudder’s gone, while the port propeller’s damaged. We’re not making
any water to speak of.”
“D’you want a tow, then?” shouted the skipper.
“Yes,” came back the reply. “Could you get us along to Halmouth? We can
land the passengers and mails there.”
“I can take ye there,” answered the joyful Morris.
A few more shouted directions passed between the two vessels while a
knot of men on the liner’s forecastle made the end of a coir hawser fast
to a life-buoy.[B] This was then thrown overboard, and the line was paid
out while the tug backed astern.
After what seemed an eternity the buoy was seen floating on the heaving
water close to the side of the _Evening Star_, and when several
unsuccessful attempts had been made, it was at length dragged on board.
It was then taken to the steam winch, and the powerful little engine
commenced to heave in fathom after fathom as Morris manœuvred the tug so
as to get ahead of theº _Cashmere_.
It all took time, but before long a wire hawser appeared, made fast to
the end of the coir. The end of this was secured to the towing hook in
the tug, and at length there came a hail from the liner to say the other
end had also been made fast.
Putting the engine-room telegraph at “Half speed,” Morris circled the
_Evening Star_ round for her course for Halmouth. But the engineer below
made a fatal mistake; he gave the engines rather too much speed, and as
the weight of the liner came on the hawser it suddenly tautened and flew
out of the water. The skipper saw at once what had happened, and dashed
to the telegraph to stop the engines.
He was too late, however, for there was a sharp crack, and the steel
wire suddenly snapped in two. The vessels were once more separated.
“That comes o’ using their bloomin’ wires,” muttered the skipper
angrily; “a decent bit o’ hemp ’ud never part like that!”
The men in both ships hauled in the ends of the broken wire, and as they
did so Morris reviewed the situation in his mind. He had on board the
_Evening Star_ a strong 18-inch hemp rope, which would tow the liner
with safety, but the question was how to get it across to the other
ship.
He could not float it on account of its weight, while the sea was still
too great to lower a boat, and to take the tug close to the disabled
ship was too risky to be attempted. He did not wish to lose the chance
of towing the _Cashmere_, but though he thought hard, he could see no
way out of the difficulty.
“I don’t know what to do, my son,” he at length remarked to Tom in a
puzzled voice; “their blessed wire’s parted, and how are we to get
another across?”
The boy thought for a moment.
“Couldn’t I swim across with a thin line, father?” he said at length.
“We could tie a life-buoy on to the end of it, and then they could haul
a hawser across.”
The skipper looked surprised.
“Swim!” he exclaimed. “How d’ye expect to do it in this sea? You’d never
get there.”
“Oh, yes, I would, father,” replied Tom confidently; “you forget I won a
prize for swimming last summer term.”
“I couldn’t let ye do it,” said Morris; “it’s too dangerous, an’ I don’t
want to lose ye. Look at the sea!”
Tom looked at the heaving waste of water, and it certainly did appear
alarming, for the wind whistled across the great rolling waves until
their broken tops were flung to leeward in clouds of flying scud.
“Oh, do let me!” he pleaded. “I shall be perfectly safe if I have a
lifebelt on, and I shall be holding on to a life-buoy the whole time.
You can always haul me back if there’s any danger.”
“I don’t like to,” returned his father hesitatingly; “not but what ye’d
do it, but supposing ye got drowned.”
“I won’t get drowned, father,” answered Tom. “How can I if I’ve got a
lifebelt on? Just think of what it means. If you tow this ship home
you’ll make a lot of money, and if you don’t, somebody else will. You
must let me go, father!”
“Yes, it means a lot to me; but suppose----”