I.

The whole voyage was an unpleasant one, and Captain Mackrie, of the

Anglo-Malay Company's steamship _Nicobar_, had at last some excuse for

the ill-temper that had made him notorious and unpopular in the

company's marine staff. Although the fourth and fifth mates in the

seclusion of their berth ventured deeper in their search for motives,

and opined that the "old man" had made a deal less out of this voyage

than usual, the company having lately taken to providing its own stores;

so that "makings" were gone clean and "cumshaw" (which means commission

in the trading lingo of the China seas) had shrunk small indeed. In

confirmation they adduced the uncommonly long face of the steward (the

only man in the ship satisfied with the skipper), whom the new

regulations hit with the same blow. But indeed the steward's dolor might

well be credited to the short passenger list, and the unpromising aspect

of the few passengers in the eyes of a man accustomed to gauge one's

tip-yielding capacity a month in advance. For the steward it was

altogether the wrong time of year, the wrong sort of voyage, and

certainly the wrong sort of passengers. So that doubtless the

confidential talk of the fourth and fifth officers was mere youthful

scandal. At any rate, the captain had prospect of a good deal in private

trade home, for he had been taking curiosities and Japanese oddments

aboard (plainly for sale in London) in a way that a third steward would

have been ashamed of, and which, for a captain, was a scandal and an

ignominy; and he had taken pains to insure well for the lot. These

things the fourth and fifth mates often spoke of, and more than once

made a winking allusion to, in the presence of the third mate and the

chief engineer, who laughed and winked too, and sometimes said as much

to the second mate, who winked without laughing; for of such is the

tittle-tattle of shipboard.

The _Nicobar_ was bound home with few passengers, as I have said, a

small general cargo, and gold bullion to the value of L200,000--the

bullion to be landed at Plymouth, as usual. The presence of this bullion

was a source of much conspicuous worry on the part of the second

officer, who had charge of the bullion-room. For this was his first

voyage on his promotion from third officer, and the charge of L200,000

worth of gold bars was a thing he had not been accustomed to. The placid

first officer pointed out to him that this wasn't the first shipment of

bullion the world had ever known, by a long way, nor the largest. Also

that every usual precaution was taken, and the keys were in the

captain's cabin; so that he might reasonably be as easy in his mind as

the few thousand other second officers who had had charge of hatches and

special cargo since the world began. But this did not comfort Brasyer.

He fidgeted about when off watch, considering and puzzling out the

various means by which the bullion-room might be got at, and fidgeted

more when on watch, lest somebody might be at that moment putting into

practice the ingenious dodges he had thought of. And he didn't keep his

fears and speculations to himself. He bothered the first officer with

them, and when the first officer escaped he explained the whole thing at

length to the third officer.

"Can't think what the company's about," he said on one such occasion to

the first mate, "calling a tin-pot bunker like that a bullion-room."

"Skittles!" responded the first mate, and went on smoking.

"Oh, that's all very well for you who aren't responsible," Brasyer went

on, "but I'm pretty sure something will happen some day; if not on this

voyage on some other. Talk about a strong room! Why, what's it made of?"

"Three-eighths boiler plate."

"Yes, three-eighths boiler plate--about as good as a sixpenny tin money

box. Why, I'd get through that with my grandmother's scissors!"

"All right; borrow 'em and get through. _I_ would if I had a

grandmother."

"There it is down below there out of sight and hearing, nice and handy

for anybody who likes to put in a quiet hour at plate cutting from the

coal bunker next door--always empty, because it's only a seven-ton

bunker, not worth trimming. And the other side's against the steward's

pantry. What's to prevent a man shipping as steward, getting quietly

through while he's supposed to be bucketing about among his slops and

his crockery, and strolling away with the plunder at the next port? And

then there's the carpenter. _He's_ always messing about somewhere below,

with a bag full of tools. Nothing easier than for him to make a job in a

quiet corner, and get through the plates."

"But then what's he to do with the stuff when he's got it? You can't

take gold ashore by the hundredweight in your boots."

"Do with it. Why, dump it, of course. Dump it overboard in a quiet port

and mark the spot. Come to that, he could desert clean at Port

Said--what easier place?--and take all he wanted. You know what Port

Said's like. Then there are the firemen--oh, _anybody_ can do it!" And

Brasyer moved off to take another peep under the hatchway.

The door of the bullion-room was fastened by one central patent lock and

two padlocks, one above and one below the other lock. A day or two after

the conversation recorded above, Brasyer was carefully examining and

trying the lower of the padlocks with a key, when a voice immediately

behind him asked sharply, "Well, sir, and what are you up to with that

padlock?"

Brasyer started violently and looked round. It was Captain Mackrie.

"There's--that is--I'm afraid these are the same sort of padlocks as

those in the carpenter's stores," the second mate replied, in a hurry of

explanation. "I--I was just trying, that's all; I'm afraid the keys

fit."

"Just you let the carpenter take care of his own stores, will you, Mr.

Brasyer? There's a Chubb's lock there as well as the padlocks, and the

key of that's in my cabin, and I'll take care doesn't go out of it

without my knowledge. So perhaps you'd best leave off experiments till

you're asked to make 'em, for your own sake. That's enough now," the

captain added, as Brasyer appeared to be ready to reply; and he turned

on his heel and made for the steward's quarters.

Brasyer stared after him ragefully. "Wonder what _you_ want down here,"

he muttered under his breath. "Seems to me one doesn't often see a

skipper as thick with the steward as that." And he turned off growling

towards the deck above.

"Hanged if I like that steward's pantry stuck against the side of the

bullion-room," he said later in the day to the first officer. "And what

does a steward want with a lot of boiler-maker's tools aboard? You know

he's got them."

"In the name of the prophet, rats!" answered the first mate, who was of

a less fussy disposition. "What a fatiguing creature you are, Brasyer!

Don't you know the man's a boiler-maker by regular trade, and has only

taken to stewardship for the last year or two? That sort of man doesn't

like parting with his tools, and as he's a widower, with no home ashore,

of course he has to carry all his traps aboard. Do shut up, and take

your proper rest like a Christian. Here, I'll give you a cigar; it's all

right--Burman; stick it in your mouth, and keep your jaw tight on it."

But there was no soothing the second officer. Still he prowled about the

after orlop deck, and talked at large of his anxiety for the contents of

the bullion-room. Once again, a few days later, as he approached the

iron door, he was startled by the appearance of the captain coming, this

time, _from_ the steward's pantry. He fancied he had heard tapping,

Brasyer explained, and had come to investigate. But the captain turned

him back with even less ceremony than before, swearing he would give

charge of the bullion-room to another officer if Brasyer persisted in

his eccentricities. On the first deck the second officer was met by the

carpenter, a quiet, sleek, soft-spoken man, who asked him for the

padlock and key he had borrowed from the stores during the week. But

Brasyer put him off, promising to send it back later. And the carpenter

trotted away to a job he happened to have, singularly enough, in the

hold, just under the after orlop deck, and below the floor of the

bullion-room.

As I have said, the voyage was in no way a pleasant one. Everywhere the

weather was at its worst, and scarce was Gibraltar passed before the

Lascars were shivering in their cotton trousers, and the Seedee boys

were buttoning tight such old tweed jackets as they might muster from

their scanty kits. It was January. In the Bay the weather was

tremendous, and the _Nicobar_ banged and shook and pitched distractedly

across in a howling world of thunderous green sea, washed within and

without, above and below. Then, in the Chops, as night fell, something

went, and there was no more steerage-way, nor, indeed, anything else but

an aimless wallowing. The screw had broken.

The high sea had abated in some degree, but it was still bad. Such sail

as the steamer carried, inadequate enough, was set, and shift was made

somehow to worry along to Plymouth--or to Falmouth if occasion better

served--by that means. And so the _Nicobar_ beat across the Channel on a

rather better, though anything but smooth, sea, in a black night, made

thicker by a storm of sleet, which turned gradually to snow as the hours

advanced.

The ship laboured slowly ahead, through a universal blackness that

seemed to stifle. Nothing but a black void above, below, and around, and

the sound of wind and sea; so that one coming before a deck-light was

startled by the quiet advent of the large snowflakes that came like

moths as it seemed from nowhere. At four bells--two in the morning--a

foggy light appeared away on the starboard bow--it was the Eddystone

light--and an hour or two later, the exact whereabouts of the ship being

a thing of much uncertainty, it was judged best to lay her to till

daylight. No order had yet been given, however, when suddenly there were

dim lights over the port quarter, with a more solid blackness beneath

them. Then a shout and a thunderous crash, and the whole ship shuddered,

and in ten seconds had belched up every living soul from below. The

_Nicobar's_ voyage was over--it was a collision.

The stranger backed off into the dark, and the two vessels drifted

apart, though not till some from the _Nicobar_ had jumped aboard the

other. Captain Mackrie's presence of mind was wonderful, and never for a

moment did he lose absolute command of every soul on board. The ship had

already begun to settle down by the stern and list to port. Life-belts

were served out promptly. Fortunately there were but two women among the

passengers, and no children. The boats were lowered without a mishap,

and presently two strange boats came as near as they dare from the ship

(a large coasting steamer, it afterwards appeared) that had cut into the

_Nicobar_. The last of the passengers were being got off safely, when

Brasyer, running anxiously to the captain, said:--

"Can't do anything with that bullion, can we, sir? Perhaps a box or

two----"

"Oh, damn the bullion!" shouted Captain Mackrie. "Look after the boat,

sir, and get the passengers off. The insurance companies can find the

bullion for themselves."

But Brasyer had vanished at the skipper's first sentence. The skipper

turned aside to the steward as the crew and engine-room staff made for

the remaining boats, and the two spoke quietly together. Presently the

steward turned away as if to execute an order, and the skipper continued

in a louder tone:--

"They're the likeliest stuff, and we can but drop 'em, at worst. But be

slippy--she won't last ten minutes."

She lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. By that time, however, everybody

was clear of her, and the captain in the last boat was only just near

enough to see the last of her lights as she went down.