Orders for Cavendish
"Commander wishes to see you, sir!" Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere
Cavendish--affectionately known to his brother-officers as "Weeds"
and known to have answered readily to the sobriquet
"Plug"--acknowledged the marine orderly's announcement.
Cavendish was in a shore-billet--the Royal Naval Barracks at
Portsmouth--having just completed a gunnery course at Whale Island.
He was speculating upon what manner of craft his next ship would be.
He rather fancied a destroyer, but would have been in no way
surprised or disappointed if he were appointed to a light cruiser.
He was not particularly keen on a battleship. That meant a two-years
commission either in home waters or in the Mediterranean--and
already, in his comparatively brief career, he had seen enough of
Malta and Gib. to express a wish never to see either place again.
Life on a battleship in peace-time, he reflected, was apt to savour
of boredom; on a destroyer there were discomforts, but on the whole
there were compensations. It gave a fellow a chance to do something
that would be impossible on a capital ship. A sub on a destroyer was
a responsible person; on a battleship, he was one of a crowd.
For another reason, he was not altogether certain that he had done
well in the gunnery course; but he _did_ know that he had obtained a
"first" in the torpedo course.
Cavendish unshipped his legs from the messroom fender, threw the
morning's paper on the settee, and, after exchanging a jest with
some of the other occupants, made his way to the commander's office.
The marine orderly had given no indication of the reason for the
interview. It was more than likely that he did not know. That left
Cavendish speculating as to the possible reason for the "Bloke's"
wish to see him. As far as he knew, there was nothing "up against"
him.
Discreetly he knocked at the door of the commander's private room.
Commander Broadstairs was a typical officer of the present-day
navy--clean-shaven, alert both physically and mentally, and with a
certain brusqueness of manner that at times might be mistaken for
churlishness. On the quarter-deck, he would reduce a truculent
defaulter to a state of panic by a mere look. On duty he was a
living example of discipline and order, both spelt with a capital
letter. He knew by heart the whole of the "Sailors' Bible"--the
Admiralty Instructions. It was said that the men feared him more
than they did the Commodore.
But when off duty, Commander Broadstairs' mantle of routine was
shed. He was just an ordinary, jovial fellow--a gentleman in the
truest sense of the word. His popularity was not of his own seeking;
it was acquired simply by his personality.
"Come in!" he shouted breezily. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Cavendish.
Take a seat."
He waved his hand in the direction of an arm-chair by the side of
his large knee-hole desk.
The Sub sat down promptly enough. The fact that he, a very junior
officer, had not been kept standing at attention, indicated the
nature of the forthcoming interview. Probably it concerned the
garrison sports, or the united services boxing tournament.
But Cavendish was well out of his reckoning.
"The Commodore has asked me to select a certain number of officers
for a particular service," began the Commander. "It occurred to me
that for various reasons you would be a suitable candidate. It is,
of course, optional whether you accept or otherwise, since it is a
matter requiring great discretion and involving a certain amount of
risk, not to say danger."
The "Bloke" paused and fixed his eyes upon the young officer.
"Near East, for a dead cert," thought Cavendish, then aloud he said,
"I'm quite ready, sir."
"You'd better wait until you've learnt more of the nature of the
operations," resumed the Commander, with a wry smile. "Let me see;
you served a commission in the South American station, I believe?"
"Yes, sir; midshipman on the _Cyclex_ in 1921-2."
"You know the approaches to Bahia? And San Luiz? And Macapa? Good.
Now, describe the anchorage off Port of Spain."
"Weeds" did so, evidently to the Commander's satisfaction.
"Do you know anything of the Rio Guaya?" continued his inquirer.
"No, sir," replied Cavendish promptly. "We never put in there during
the whole of the commission. But----"
He paused, thinking that what he was about to say was irrelevant.
"But what?"
"I know a fellow living out in Rioguay, sir. An old shipmate of
mine. He went on the beach from the _Baffin_."
"Name?"
"Peter Corbold, sir."
"H'm; name's familiar. Do you ever hear from him?"
"I had one letter, sir. I answered it--but I haven't heard since."
"What's he doing out there?"
"Mining engineering, I think, sir. He mentioned an uncle in the same
profession who had been in Rioguay for some time."
The Commander started on another tack.
"The Admiralty have issued orders for the _Cynesephon_ to be brought
forward for commissioning," he announced.
Cavendish sat bolt upright in the chair. Now he was beginning to
grasp the drift of things. Hitherto, he had been groping blindly,
trying to piece together the baffling questions which the Commander
had put to him, in a vain endeavour to discover the nature of the
hazardous duty hinted at.
He knew the _Cynesephon_. She was one of the "P" boats that in 1918
had been converted into a "Q" ship and altered to resemble a South
American freighter. She was supposed to be the last word in mystery
ships, but an opportunity to use her never arrived, owing to the
Armistice.
For certain reasons she had not been scrapped. She was now lying in
one of the basins at Portsmouth Dockyard, snugly moored between two
battleships of the _Thunderer_ class, which were permanently out of
commission.
And now the _Cynesephon_ was to be rescued from the scrap heap and
reconditioned--why?
Putting two and two together--the commissioning of the _Cynesephon_
and the Commander's inquiries about Cavendish's service on the South
American station--the Sub made a shrewd guess.
For several days there had been reports of British ships bound to
and from Brazilian and Argentine ports being overdue. Several of
them had been posted at Lloyd's as missing. At first, the general
public hardly noticed the information, and until the Press gave
prominence to the matter, few people outside the shipping circles
had any idea of the persistent increase of the list of vessels
overdue.
Then sprang up the usual crop of rumours--a pirate in the South
Atlantic providing the favourite topic. Vessels of all nationalities
had cleared South American ports and had made their various
destinations. None of the masters had reported falling in with a
suspicious craft; but it was an ominous fact that, without
exception, the overdue vessels had sailed under the Red Ensign.
A question was raised in the House concerning the mysterious
disappearance of so many ships, to which the First Lord made a reply
that the Admiralty were considering the matter, but did not feel
justified in sending H.M. ships, which were urgently required
elsewhere, to investigate.
That reply was a "blind". Already orders had been issued for the
secret commissioning of the _Cynesephon_ and the dispatch of the
light cruiser _Basilikon_ and the 35-knot destroyers _Messines_ and
_Armentières_ to the West Indies.
"It is in connection with the missing merchantmen, sir?" asked
Cavendish.
"You are right on the target, Mr. Cavendish," said the Commander.
"It is. The _Cynesephon_ is to be fully manned by naval ratings, but
the crew have to be disguised as merchant seamen. I need not
emphasize the fact that this information is absolutely confidential.
She will be detailed to cruise between Rio and Port of Spain in the
hope that she will be mistaken for a cargo-boat. That is acting upon
the supposition that there is a piratical vessel out. Personally, I
think that some obscure South American republic has run _amok_. A
light cruiser and a couple of destroyers will be within a hundred
miles of the decoy ship, but you will understand that they will only
be called to the _Cynesephon's_ assistance if she is in immediate
danger of foundering. There is a great chance of her being sunk with
all hands before the supporting vessels can arrive on the spot. Now,
I think I've hinted enough for you to realize the nature of the
operations. Are you a volunteer?"
"I am, sir," was the ready response.
"I thought so," rejoined the Commander. "Here are the names of your
new skipper and the officers who have already volunteered. You know
most of them, I believe. Well, that's that. Use the greatest
discretion. Remember, a chance word may wreck the whole business.
And I don't think I'd write to Corbold again if I were you--at
least, until you return."
The Commander held out his hand. Fifteen seconds later
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish stood in the corridor, hardly able to
realize his good fortune.