THE AIRMAN
JUST before dawn the _Olive Branch_ gained the northern approach of
the Straits of Messina. Away on the starboard quarter glimmered the
lights of the Sicilian town of Milazzo, while well down in the
northern sky a faint ruddy glare betokened the position of the
smouldering fires of Stromboli.
"There's Cape Faro," observed Sinclair, pointing to a headland that
loomed against the pale diffusing light. "We'll soon be in the thick
of the shipping."
"The sooner the better," rejoined Lieutenant Palmer. "The chief has
just been informed that we can only keep going another two hours."
"Port light showing, sir," shouted the look-out, as a faint red star
moved slowly from behind the intervening headland.
"Be careful not to excite suspicion," cautioned Captain Brookes, as
she gave a warning blast on her syren. "Ask her to make her number."
A reference to the code-book showed that the stranger was the British
steamer _Bletchley Hall_.
"Done this time!" grunted Sinclair, as the _Olive Branch's_ helm was
altered to show her red. Nor was the second venture more successful,
the vessel in this case being the _Pluton_, from Zante to
Castellamare.
Then, in order to economise their precious fuel, the _Olive Branch's_
engines were stopped. As the sun rose, however, a tramp, emitting
dense volumes of oil-fed smoke, laboured slowly through the Straits.
The practised eye of Captain Brookes regarded her with satisfaction.
"If that's not an oil-tank, I'm a Dutchman," he exclaimed.
Unsuspectingly the tramp gave her name, port of clearance, and
destination, and the nature of her cargo--crude petroleum. Then, to
the astonishment of her skipper, the _Olive Branch_ made a peremptory
signal for her to heave to.
To give the Russian credit he did not immediately accede to this
demand. Smoke poured from the tramp's funnels in increasing volumes
as she altered her course with the intention of seeking safety in
flight. As well might a hedgehog seek to outpace a dog, for, with the
last of her fuel the _Olive Branch's_ motors worked up to a speed of
thirty knots, while a solid shell, passing twenty yards in front of
the tramp's bluff bows, caused her to stop and reverse her engines.
"Pipe away the cutter," ordered Captain Brookes. "Mr. Palmer, you
will please take charge--you know your orders, I presume?"
"Yes, sir," replied the lieutenant.
As the cutter ranged alongside the tramp's rusty sides her captain, a
tall, broad-shouldered, heavily bearded Slav, began abusing the
intruders, cursing them in a medley of all the seafaring epithets of
Europe.
"Belay there!" exclaimed Palmer. "Don't worry, old fellow! All we
want is some oil."
"Then you'll haf to want," replied the irate skipper, who spoke
English with tolerable fluency.
"We mean to pay you a fair rate."
"No, no--I will not sell."
"Then we must make you."
"Pirate, eh?" sneered the Russian. "Me report you, an' you'll go so,"
making a rapid circle with his thumb and finishing with an upward
jerk. "What's the name of your sheep?"
"The _Olive Branch_--isn't that good enough for you?" retorted
Palmer, beginning to lose his temper.
The effect of this announcement was almost magical. The crew of the
tramp, mostly fair-haired Finns, disappeared from her bulwarks, while
the captain hastened to leave the bridge and lower a rope-ladder over
the side.
Thirty seconds later Palmer and six of his men were in possession of
the Russian vessel, and the cutter was sent back to the cruiser.
Then, carefully manoeuvred, the _Olive Branch_ came alongside the
tramp and the work of spoliation began.
The hoses were already connected up, and under the action of six
powerful centrifugal pumps the precious oil was transferred to the
tanks of the _Olive Branch_, till six hundred tons completed the
carrying capacity of the cruiser.
This done, Captain Brookes made out a draft in payment and handed it
to the Russian skipper, at the same time making him a present of a
case of whisky, which the man received with an ill grace.
"We may as well give him a taste of the Z-rays, just to show there's
no deception," remarked Captain Brookes as the _Olive Branch_ showed
her heels to the tramp.
"Will the rays not effect the submarine cable between Reggio and
Messina?" asked Gerald.
"What matters? If they want an explanation there are the subjects for
theory," replied the captain, waving his arm in the direction of the
invisible Etna. "Volcanic disturbances, eh?"
The Z-rays were accordingly released for ten minutes, during which
time the _Olive Branch_ had passed the renowned Scylla and Charybdis
of the ancients and was heading towards the port of Catania, sixty
miles to the south'ard of the Straits.
"Wreck ahead, sir," reported the look-out.
Glasses were instantly levelled, and an object was discovered that at
first sight appeared to be a small sailing craft lying on her beam
ends.
"If that be the case, she's a rum sort of sailing boat," remarked
Stockton. "She has a sail set on her keel as well."
"It's a monoplane," announced Captain Brookes. "The airman has come
to earth on the water, to perpetrate an Irish bull. Stand by there,
for'ard!"
Orders were given for the _Olive Branch_ to reduce speed, while the
crew prepared for salvage work. In the course of a few minutes the
distance had decreased sufficiently for the wrecked aeroplane to be
plainly visible to the naked eye. Although it owed its buoyancy to
the fact that two cylindrical aluminium floats were attached to the
chassis, the disabled monoplane was deeply submerged. The engine was
lost to view, the tips of the twin propellers just projecting above
the surface, while the extremities of the planes dipped to each
successive swell.
Seated up to his waist in water was the aviator, clad in a partially
inflated rubber suit. He had already seen that aid was approaching,
and with the utmost deliberation he had taken an air-tight case from
his pocket. From this he drew a huge cigar, which he proceeded to
light with an automatic lighter, puffing away with the greatest
unconcern, as if a plunge into the sea in a monoplane was an
every-day event.
"Steady on your helm, there," cautioned the captain, as the huge hull
glided slowly to leeward of the wrecked aeroplane; then leaning over
the rail he hailed "Ahoy, there! What's the length of your planes?"
"Fifteen feet," came the reply.
Noiselessly one of the cranes swung outboard; the block with its
electrical grappling device was lowered, and engaging the framework
fairly amidships, held it in a vice-like grip. The next instant the
monoplane was swinging in the air, a cascade of water and oil pouring
from every point of its complicated framework.
"You've come to grief, I see," observed Captain Brookes genially, as
the airman slipped from his seat on to the deck of the cruiser.
"No need to tell me that, sir," replied the stranger, speaking with a
pronounced American twang. "I guess I'd give a dollar or two to find
out how she busted up. First time I've known an engine of the
Maxfield Universal Gold Star Motor Company, of Petersburg, Pa., to
play that low-down trick. But here's my card, sir: Sidney P. Flew, of
New York City, and of Portland, State of Oregon; until a few minutes
ago, on tour from Queenstown to Cairo by monoplane. What ship is
this, sir?"
"You are on board the _Olive Branch_," said Captain Brookes, taking
the piece of pasteboard.
"What, that durned pirate? Wal, if I ain't come out on top after all.
Shake, sir! I'm that downright fortunate that I feel like pinching
myself in case I'm fooling myself."
"Then you have heard of the _Olive Branch_?"
"Heard of her? Why, the whole of Europe and the United States have
been talking about her. When I left New York the last words my pa
said to me were, 'Sidney, young fellow, mind that durned _Olive
Branch_ doesn't snap you up.' 'I wish she would,' says I. 'It would
be the stunt of a lifetime, and you would be the proudest man in
Broadway if you knew your son set foot aboard that vessel.' And now,
here I am."
"Well, your wish is gratified, though I don't know whether your
expectations will be realised, Mr. Flew," replied Captain Brookes,
hardly knowing what to make of the young man's verbosity. "Meanwhile
one of my officers will take you below. The hospitality of the _Olive
Branch_ is at your service for a few hours at least."
"No need of refreshment at present, sir. Had breakfast at Cosenza not
two hours ago. With your permission I'll dismember my machine and
overhaul the engine before the salt-water plays the mischief with it.
Durned if I can cotton to it! The motor was going like a clock, when
all of a heap it stopped. Ignition all to blazes. So down I planed,
like a ptarmigan with a broken wing."
"I think I can explain it," observed Captain Brookes. "I was
compelled for certain reasons to let fly an electrical current, and
unfortunately for you, your monoplane came within its influence."
"More luck!" exclaimed the American, enthusiastically. "Sidney P.
Flew, of New York City and Portland, fired at by the electrical guns
of the world-renowned cruiser, _Olive Branch_. What a heading for the
New York Herald."
"He's a harmless young enthusiast," remarked Captain Brookes to
Gerald, as the aviator turned his attention to the rescued monoplane.
"You might take him in hand and show him those parts of the ship that
are of no particular importance. As soon as his craft is all
ship-shape, we'll start him on his journey. By the bye, I hear that
the Turkish fleet is still in the Golden Horn, and that nothing is
likely to transpire for a few days. What do you say to a run across
to Malta?"
"I should be glad of the opportunity, if no inconvenience is caused."
"There will be none. Sinclair is going, so if you care to take your
friend, Stockton, now's the opportunity. The cutter will take you
into Catania, whence a steamer plies regularly to Valetta."
Tregarthen and Stockton had barely fifteen hours ashore at Malta, but
not a minute was wasted. Gerald had a previous knowledge of the
island, and was thus able to pilot his chum. His chief object in
making the trip was to procure a lieutenant's uniform. Now that the
Admiralty had given the sanction to Gerald's presence on the _Olive
Branch_ he felt he could with propriety wear the uniform of his rank.
So directly he landed at Valetta he hurried to a naval outfitter's,
where by dint of promises of liberal payment he prevailed upon the
Maltese tailor to have the uniform ready at the expiration of twelve
hours.
"There's no time to be lost if we are to stop this business," was
Captain Brookes's greeting on Gerald's return. "The Turkish fleet has
cleared the Dardanelles at last. Turn in and take a good night's
rest, for I'm sure you want it."
"One moment, sir--how's the airman?"
"Oh, he's a nuisance. Makes out he can't get his engine to work
smoothly. I believe it's only an excuse to hang on. However, it can't
be helped; I can't pitch him out at a minute's notice, so I've had
the monoplane unrigged and stowed away beneath the armoured deck.
After this business is over we can land him if he's still unable to
fly. Look, there he is, talking to Palmer. By the bye, he seems very
fond of that young fellow. Now, off you go, Mr. Tregarthen, for by
sunrise to-morrow we may be cleared for action."
[Illustration: chapter XXI]