international turmoil, and the Colonial Secretary of the Other Power
rubbed his be-ringed and manicured hands and congratulated himself
that Great Britain could not this time "muddle through somehow" after
her usual habit by any possible means whatever. "I am sorry for the
poor old Herr Bull," said the Colonial Secretary, "and my tailor in
London is a man for whom I could forgive his country much. But we
are the nation of the present and the future, and we intend to have
our place in the sun. Back numbers must suffer. And the guns shall
go out by one of their own fool ships. Then there can be no back
reckonings. American guns, ferried over in an English boat, landed
at a British port, and carried to a country the greedy British are
trying to annex. De--licious!"
But on the seas at that particular moment was a clean-shaved,
red-faced young man, who gave the well-known West African name of
Jones, and bore the rank of Fourth Officer on the S.S. _M'poso_, and
as no other reason for his presence has ever transpired, one can only
suppose that he was sent there by that blind Providence which is so
well known by a sneering Europe to look after the incompetent British
Empire. Mr. Jones at that date was having a particularly evil time
of it. He had filled the mind of Captain Image with suspicion, and
that potentate was engaged in "sweating the frills off him." Mr.
Jones, who fancied himself as an actor, had done his best to adapt
himself to all the requirements of the West African junior mate, but
he had glaringly failed in many things, and in his very attempts the
peppery Captain Image saw cause of offence.
"What do you think is the latest?" he demanded one sweltering day of
the plump Mr. Balgarnie. "I sent him ashore yesterday in a surf boat
to bring off a few bags of kernels from Swizzle-stick Smith's factory
at Malla Nulla, and he actually had the nerve to teach his Elmina
boys to toss their paddles as they came up to the guess-warp
alongside."
"Man o' war fashion."
"Precisely, the smooth-faced young pup. So after I'd given him my
tongue, I put him in the other surf boat with those Sa' Leone
Krooboys."
"And as they know their rights," said the Purser rather bitterly,
"there'd be no use tampering with them. And as there's been a
shocking bad beach to-day, and as those Christian Kroos are rotten
bad boat boys, he'll have had a gay time of it landing."
Captain Image winked a watery eye. "Spilt three times, so I hear,
though he didn't report it. And knowing old Swizzle-stick's beach, I
should guess he'd swallow enough Atlantic and seaweed to last him a
lifetime. But the pup's a sticker, I will say that for him. He had
his boat all ready to go ashore again when I decided the beach was
too bad, and hove up and steamed on."
"Why's he always messing about in Number Three Hold when he's
supposed to be off watch?"
"Oh, that's all right, Purser me lad. He asked me one day if he was
expected to tally cargo. I said yes, unless he proposed to play
amusing tunes on the grand piano whilst somebody else did his work
for him. 'Then, sir,' says he, 'as I shouldn't like you to find me
inefficient when the time comes, would you mind my going down
beforehand to see how the cargo's stowed?' Well, I wasn't civil, but
I said he could go if he felt incompetent and was minded to waste his
time that way. To tell the truth I didn't see how I could refuse."
"It is awkward sometimes to think of the right repartee on the spur
of the moment. But I noticed you stuck up for him when that Dutchman
came aboard breathing thunder and blitzen off Abadah."
Captain Image's complexion deepened to a fine plum colour. "I'm
skipper aboard here, Mr. Balgarnie me lad, and though I do allow
liberties with traders who ship cargo, it is best they should always
remember my true position. Besides, as regards Schmaltz, although we
bring him a big tonnage out from home, he's never shipped so much as
a ton of cargo by the _M'poso_ for the run North."
Cargo from Liverpool interested Captain Image little. But on every
ton of cargo picked up on the Coast he drew commission, and somewhat
naturally West African cargo was the chiefest of his life's
interests. He was believed in the Liverpool office to have the
keenest nose for cargo in the trade, but even there they did not
realize the wealth of diplomacy he expended over the gathering of it.
"That man Schmaltz is a fraud," Captain Image went on, "and he's
neither bottom nor sides to his stomach. Last time I was round here
I asked him aboard for chop. Instead of the usual two preliminary
cocktails he had six. He must have necked at least three bottles of
Castle Hamburg champagne for dinner, and didn't even put angostura in
it. He said he could do with some port after, and cost me a couple
of pints, and then I started to drink him level at whisky and soda.
Well, Balgarnie me lad, you know what I am on that?"
"I do," said the stout Purser feelingly.
"Well, he was a tin wonder. I'll admit to being inclined to recite
poetry myself by the time we knocked off, but he hadn't so much as
stirred a hair. But as for cargo, I might as well been asking for
his gold nuts."
"Bland way with him too, hasn't he?"
"Bland, d'ye style it? I should call it b---- Yes, Mr. Price?"
The old third officer, with half an inch of white showing at the
roots of his dyed hair reported that his room-mate the Fourth was
down with fever.
"Ungrateful young skrimshanker, just when I was beginning to make a
useful mate of him. Well, Mr. Price me lad, as you know, I can be
hospitable even to a junior mate. Come along to the chart house, and
I'll give you a couple of pills. Let him take those in half a
tumbler of whisky together with a cigarette paper full of quinine,
and he'll be ready for work to-morrow. Has he been wandering at all
in his talk, Mr. Price? Has he let on at all where he served before
he came on the _M'poso_?"
"He's said little, except to abuse me for snoring, which is a thing I
never do. But look you, when I come to think of it, he has talked of
guns and again of guns."
"Navy," said the Purser.
"Look you, I thought it was his cheeky way of referring to my
breathing."
"Navy," said Captain Image. "It's written all over him in plain red
clean-shaved print. That'll do, Mr. Price. There are the pills, and
don't let them roll out of your fist. Here, I'll just flatten them.
There, that's safe. Yes, he's been Navy, Balgarnie me lad, an
officer too, and he's skipped. I wonder what for? However that's
his palaver. He's here now, and if he doesn't peg out, with God's
help, I'll make him into an efficient West Coast Fourth Mate.
Between ourselves I liked the way he stood up to Schmaltz, although
you can bet your sweet life I didn't let him guess that. There was
nothing of the flare up about him, no language, not so much as a
hard-shut first even. He was just coolly polite. Reminded me of a
play actor I saw once at the Court Theatre who was pretending to be a
gentleman. If he'd blustered, I really believe Schmaltz would have
hit him, and been glad of the chance. He was as mad as he could
stick."
"What did happen exactly? I never heard the proper tale."
"Well, Schmaltz had got some goods consigned in the ordinary way.
Hardware it was invoiced as, and I suppose altogether the lot ran up
to about three tons in weight. It was hove up and dropped into the
surf boats, and paddled ashore in the usual way. There was, as I
say, a good handful of it, and as you remember there was a bad run of
surf that day, and so they were getting it ashore pretty slowly. But
no sooner does the first lot get dumped on his beach, than off comes
Schmaltz in the return boat in a towering rage. He'd been upset in
the surf coming off, and was wet to the skin and had broken his
specs, and I don't suppose that improved his temper. Anyway he
stormed up to the tally desk and swore by ten thousand devils we'd
sent him off the wrong cargo, and done it on purpose."
"'And what, sir, is your private mark?' asks Mr. Navy Jones as cool
as an ice cream."
[S-in-a-ring-in-triangle mark] "'S-in-a-ring-in-a-triangle,' says
Schmaltz."
"'Right,' says Navy. 'The responsibility of sending off those goods
is entirely mine. I see by my tally sheet I have sent ashore to your
address seventeen cases marked S-in-a-ring-in-a-triangle. From
memory I can tell you that six were biggish bundles, and the rest
were rectangular and about the size of--ar--ammunition boxes!'"
"Navy again," said Mr. Balgarnie.
"Oh, it was Navy right through, Purser me lad. And I'll not deny
that for a change it's rather amusing to hear it when you've run dry
on your ordinary tap of hard language. Ammunition boxes indeed! I
thought Schmaltz would have choked. But he's the business man right
enough. Trade first and fun afterwards is his motto, and before
Jones could stop him he was climbing down into the hold himself."
"'If you are such a dunderhead you can't look after my cargo,' says
Schmaltz, 'I'll go and pick it out myself.'
"'If you don't come up out of that hold one-time,' says Mr. Fourth
Mate, 'I'll have you sent in a way that'll surprise you. The stuff
down there's under my charge, and I don't have it tampered with by a
half-drowned Dutchman anyway.'"
"Good," said Mr. Balgarnie. "The pup's got pluck. Schmaltz is twice
his weight, at a low estimate. And so he came up, sir?"
"He did not, me lad. He went on clambering unhandily down. Jones
picks up a cargo sling and heaves it to that second headman,
Funnel-Paint, who was at the bottom of the hold, and says he, 'When
that Dutchman who is crawling down comes within your reach, make him
fast to the winch chain. I want him up here. Savvy?'
"'Savvy plenty,' says Funnel-Paint smartly enough. I will say,
Balgarnie me lad, the smooth-faced young pup's got the knack of
command, and the hands always jump when he raps out an order. So
Mister Schmaltz when he steps out on the ground floor finds himself
grabbed by a dozen naked sweating, stinking Krooboys, and hitched up
in a cargo sling, and hooked on to the winch chain, and jerked aloft,
and bashed against the sides of the hatch as the old girl rolled.
They ran him up to the sheave wriggling like an eel snarled up in a
fishing line, and then they guyed the derrick outboard, and let him
go by the run to where a surf boat ought to have been but wasn't. I
guess the objections were mostly drowned out of him by the time he
was hauled on board a boat and paddled to the beach."
"So perish all Dutchmen," said Mr. Balgarnie, with emotion. He
touched no cargo commission, and could afford to let animosities
spirt out which his superior officer had to keep suppressed. "I've
wanted to kick that man myself most times I've seen him, and the only
reason I didn't was because I thought he might be useful to you and
the ship. Let's hope a shark chops him next time he tries to leave
the shore."
"Amen," said Captain Image. "I've no use for any foreign devil palm
oil ruffian who hasn't cargo for me when I call off his factory.
Why, he's worse than a Belgian, that one."
There was a pause, and then the stout Purser coughed and said, "I'm
wondering."
"What's broke now?" inquired his friend and senior officer.
"Has Jones anything to do with that cheerful drunk we've got down
below in the First Class, who's also a Dutchman, and who also had
objections to raise about his cargo?"
"Name of Aaronstein Gebruden from that funny little green painted
factory in the Happy Dutchland Colony?"
"Aaronstein: that's him. Gebruden is Dutch for 'And Co.' His
objection was a bit of a mystery to me, sir."
"Oh, he came off from New Hamburg suffering from a different kind of
hot bearings. He'd cargo consigned which he said differed from the
invoice, but he didn't kick. He wanted to stand Mr. Jones a dash and
seemed surprised when the d----d fool wouldn't take it."
"Navy again," said the Purser.
"Obviously. But they argued it out quietly enough."
"'What's your mark?' says Jones.
[double-A-in-a-long-diamond mark] "'Double-A-in-a-long-diamond,' says
Aaronstein.
"'Were the goods you got marked with something else?' asks Mr. Fourth
Mate.
"'They were not. They all had the double-A-in-a-long-diamond,
but----'
"'I've nothing to do with your buts,' says Jones smartly enough.
"'If your goods have got the right mark on 'em that's the end of my
funeral procession. And you may take your drinks to a place where
the temperature's probably lower than it is here, and where we've no
reason to believe there's malarial fever. I'm not thirsty.'
"'Man,' says Gebruden in a pig's whisper you could hear on the upper
bridge, 'Man, you've sent us wrong goods. I open a case: I expect to
find gramophone records: I see cartridges. I open another. It
should be fishing rods: it is----'
"'Oh, go and boil your head,' says Mr. Fourth Mate, 'and attend to
your business, and don't come bothering me. Is the stuff saleable?'
"The Dutchman stared till his eyes stuck out of his head like a
lobster's. 'Oh, it's saleable enough, Herr Jones,' says he.
"'Then in heaven's name go and peddle it to your dusky customers,'
says my high-toned Fourth. 'I guess making a bargain is your mission
in life.'
"'Quite so, quite so,' says Gebruden. 'I only wanted to be assured
that the cargo was mine.'
"'That I can't answer for,' says Mr. Fourth Mate as chilly as you
please, 'not having the pleasure of your personal acquaintance. But
these cases belong to the shopkeeper whose mark is
double-A-in-a-long-diamond, and if he doesn't make the most of them,
he's a variegated fool.'"
"Did he say 'variegated fool'?" asked the Purser.
"Now, I come to think of it, me lad, he did not. He said 'silly
fathead.'"
"There you see, sir," said Mr. Balgarnie. "Navy again."
"Yes," said Captain Image thoughtfully, "and he wouldn't share. I
wish the chance had come my way."
"Have there been some good pickings then?"
"I don't know what cargo Gebruden expected. Ordinary trade stuff, I
suppose. And he'd have gone grubbing along, and just keeping to
windward of bankruptcy as he has done these last dozen years. The
niggers don't bring trade into the Dutch colonies if they can avoid
it--prices too bad, too many forms to fill up, too many officials to
pay. And then in this particular bit of the Happy Fatherland there's
that war still going on that they don't seem able to stamp out,
although they've got enough troops on the job to conquer half Africa,
you'd think. If it wasn't for bringing officials and war material,
the port wouldn't be worth calling at. Isn't that so, me lad?"
"C'rect."
"And how long did we stay there this run?"
"Twenty-eight--no, twenty-seven hours."
"Well, Gebruden in that time seems to have done more solid business
than he's put through in the preceding twelve years. He got his
stuff ashore and up to the factory; got the cases broken open
(presumably), and the goods displayed in the feteesh; found
customers; did a deal and got paid in cash. And then, by whispers!
he closes out the rest of his business for cash also, and comes
aboard here with the family parrot and two heavy boxes that look to
me uncommonly like gold dust. He doesn't wait for the Dutch boat.
Nor would he let you book him through to Happy Dutchland. No, me
lad, good old Liverpool's far enough for him, and my idea is that
he'll be calling himself Macdonald before the year's out, and sitting
behind a big cigar in his own motor car, with an office in Castle
Street, and a county place in Cheshire. And Mr. Navy Jones might at
least have pocketed cumshaw, to the tune of--say--a suit of clothes
if he'd known anything about the ways of the Coast."
* * * * *
Look now upon a final scene on board H.M.S. _Desolation_, 2nd class
cruiser. Gunnery-Lieutenant T.R.B. Lee-Wentworth, just returned from
special leave, had reported himself on board with the usual
formalities, and spent the balance of the afternoon in taking over
duty from his substitute.
That evening he dined in state with his Captain, and they talked
briskly during the meal on the absorbing topic of Service shop. But
when the cloth was cleared, and they sat alone over a glass of port,
the elder man suddenly laughed.
"I ran down to Monte Carlo for a couple of days," said he.
"Hope you robbed the tables, sir."
"I'm afraid it was the other way on. But there was a man in Monte
who interested me. He tried to be a dressy man, and made rather a
comic failure of it. He'd been Colonial Secretary of Another Power,
and he'd just been sacked. Know anything about it?"
The Gunnery-Lieutenant grinned. "I'd like to hear, sir."
"Of course I can only tell what I picked up from the papers. But you
know they've had a war on in their West African Colony for some
considerable time now, and recently the niggers have managed to
smuggle in a big consignment of modern rifles, and they've been
giving the Europeans fits."
"Ah," said Gunnery-Lieutenant Lee-Wentworth. "Of course I couldn't
know that. I was at sea at the time. Any news from Abadah, sir?"
"Yes, by Jove. Now they've been having a busy time. They've got an
energetic fellow called Crawford as Acting-Governor, and he's taken
the bit in his teeth, and waltzed up into the hinterland with an
escort of half-a-dozen Hausa police, and calmly proclaimed a
protectorate over the whole lot of it. Sad thing about that explorer
johnny, Josephs. Crawford found him decorating the local crucifixion
tree when he arrived at the cannibal capital. I hear it hinted that
Mr. Acting-Governor rather took the wind out of the Government's
sails, but the thing's done and they can't repudiate it. In fact the
country was so pleased with Crawford's pluck, that the Government's
had to give him a knighthood."
Lee-Wentworth laughed. "Some fellows do have all the luck."
"Well," said his Captain, "whilst the rest of us have been working
here in our chains you've had a fine long enjoyable leave."
"Which I'm afraid won't count much for promotion, sir."
"I shouldn't be too sure of that if I were you," said the Captain
dryly. "I have to report privately on my officers, you know, and
even the British Admiralty sits up and takes notice if things are put
strongly enough. Have another glass of port. I'm sure you've earned
it after all the towelling you've gone through. Here's luck, Tommy.
I wish I'd your prospects ahead of me."
V
THE INTERVENING WIRE
Captain Kettle tapped Dr. Mary Brown sharply on the shoulder, and
that lady woke up with a start and shivered. She found the world
disgustingly cold, and wet, and dark. But she was briskly alive to
all possibilities.
She leant towards Captain Kettle's ear and hissed: "What is it?"
The little sailor shrank decorously away. "Here, Miss, take my
glasses, and you can see for yourself."
She did so, and peered out diligently into the wet autumn night.
Presently: "I can't see anything," she grumbled, "and the rain's got
down the collar of my oily, and has soaked through the elbows. I
know there are waves, by the sound they make on the shingle, but I
can't see them. Was there ever a blacker or colder night? And I
wish you wouldn't call me Miss."
"No, Miss--I mean Doctor. But if you look long enough till you get
used to the dark, you'll see a submarine's periscope. I can pick it
up now with the naked eye. It looks like a drain-pipe stuck up on
end and going dead slow, and there's a wake of lighter water behind
it. By James, Miss, look! It's stopped now, and is growing longer.
Mr. Submarine's coming to the surface."
A conning-tower rose out of the night sea, and presently men sprouted
from the top of it. The decks of the submarine did not show, and the
little waves splashed diligently against the foot of the
superstructure.
"Come up to get his bearings," commented Captain Kettle. "I wonder
what water he has there; must be pretty shoal. Another fifty fathoms
on the old course and he'd have piled her up hard and fast on the
floor of Wales. Now, Miss--Doctor, I mean--you'll see him go astern
again till he's reached deep water."
The girl clutched Kettle's arm and shook it. "You still won't
believe me, and I still stick to it. She's come in here for petrol,
as she did the time I told you about before. There, look! She's not
backing out to sea again as you said she would. She's moving nearer."
"By James, Miss, you're right! She's creeping north along the coast.
Is this the exact spot where you saw her before?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't tell to half a mile or so, Captain. It was
dark at the time."
Kettle groaned, but forbore to say: "How like a woman!" Instead he
took back the glasses and kept them steadily fixed on the enemy below.
"She'll be out of sight if you don't take care. Let's run along
after her."
"They'd spot us on the cliff-head here against the sky in less than
two ticks. Lie down again, Miss, or I'll have to pull you. We may
be on the edge of a big thing here, and you're going the way to spoil
it. Lie down, Miss, I say. I'm in command here, and you've asked me
to treat you as a man, and, by James, I'll do it if you don't sit
tight, much as I should regret it."
"Oh, very well," said Dr. Brown meekly.
"I've got to own up, Miss, that the Dutchmen at sea since this war
began aren't the fools they used to be. They've had sense booted
into them during the last thirty years, and it's stuck, and now
they're using it. There, you see, Miss, she hasn't gone far. That
noise meant reversed propellers. They'd got her on to some
cross-bearings on the shore, and now they're stopping her, I should
judge, over some exact spot. You stay here, Miss. I must get some
cross-bearings, too, on where she is now."
Dr. Mary Brown's voice showed a tendency to rise above the tone of
her former cautious whisper. "I'll come too. I'm half frozen to
death, crouching here. And besides, the--the beastly Germans may
land--and--and I should hate to be left alone."
"Take my overcoat and wrap yourself in that," said Kettle patiently,
"and stay here. You can't crawl about on this cliff-top without
being seen. I can. You needn't be scared of the Dutchmen's landing,
as they won't have a boat. And you needn't be afraid of my not
finding my way back to you."
"Not now you've left your coat," said Dr. Brown spitefully. "I
suppose you're sure to return for that?"
"Certainly, Miss," said the sailor with simple truth. "You see, it's
my best one. If I'd only known we were in for this rough and tumble,
I'd have brought the other. I hate spoiling clothes. Good-bye for
the present, and don't move, so that I'll know where to find you
again."
Captain Kettle moved from the lady's side, and with the craft of an
old stalker was promptly swallowed up by the darkness.
Now with regret it must be recorded that Dr. Mary Brown was a
disappointed young woman. Brown, the father, was an easy-going man,
and well-off withal. He lived in Norfolk and bred prize cocker
spaniels, and his hope was that Mary would stay at home till in due
time she married one or other of some dozen eligible neighbours, and
settle down near him. Mamma Brown, who was stout and placid, and
famed throughout three counties for her begonias, coincided with
these views exactly. But Mary, who once went to a lecture on Wasted
Lives, stated she was not going to waste hers, and decided that her
use lay in Medicine--via Girton.
She qualified in this intricate science, and was somewhat
disillusioned in the process. Thereafter she tried in a desultory
way for various appointments. Later, when these failed, she set up
her plate in Wych Street on the strength of a grudging paternal
allowance, and was still hoping for patients when the war broke out.
Instantly she conceived the notion of Doctor Mary Brown's Private
Hospital for British Soldiers in France, and telegraphed for ample
supplies. But Brown the father didn't approve of women doctors
"messing about even women" in peace time, and he thoroughly
disapproved of their "adding another horror for the soldiers maimed
in war. If the girl had turned vet. (like some of them turn
gardeners), and could doctor cockers, she might be some use," said
Brown the father. "As it is, she's getting a bit of a dam' nuisance."
"'Zactly, m'dear," said Mrs. Brown. "Just hold me this skein of
wool, will yaw?"
So when a certain baroness (who shall otherwise be nameless in this
chronicle), finding that the game of making herself a nuisance
politically was put a stop to for the time being, thought she would
look nice in a Red Cross kit, Dr. Brown was able to oblige her by
coming into the expedition as surgeon.