Part 4

“Yes,” he said, noticing that the men were looking at each other in surprise, “I daresay sailing a torpedo-boat sounds strange, but it’s got to be done! Saldanha Bay’s the best place to make for, it’s about thirty miles nor’-east of us, and as the wind’s freshening every minute and going round to the southward, we’ll have it on the starboard quarter. We must buckle to, and rig up a couple of extra masts--bearing out spars’ll do--and we must cut up every bit o’ canvas in the ship, and make it into sails. Four hours at the outside must see us under way, and though we shan’t go very fast, I hope we’ll make Saldanha Bay some time to-morrow. That’s all I’ve got to say, and now I want you to buckle to and rig up the masts and make the sails.”

The men cheered as he dismissed them, and before long they were hard at work furling the awnings while the storerooms were burgled for every inch of canvas they contained. Presently those of the men who could use a sail-maker’s palm and needle were busy sewing the lengths together, while others placed and stayed the spars to serve as main and mizzen masts, for the torpedo-boat only carried one stumpy mast forward.

By eight o’clock, when the sun sank to rest beneath the western horizon in a blaze of scarlet and gold, everything was ready except the sails.

“Come on, lads! Bear a hand!” shouted Hyne cheerfully to encourage the men sewing, and noting with satisfaction that the breeze from the southward was momentarily freshening. “We must get sail on her as soon as we can!” The bluejackets worked with a will, and half an hour later a small jib and triangular trysail were set on the foremast. They were anything but well cut or shapely, for they had been made out of the awning, but still they served their purpose, for as soon as they were hoisted the wind bellied them out, and the little vessel heeled over and began to move through the water.

“Steer east-nor’-east!” said Hyne to the coxswain, as the latter ran forward to take the wheel, and, as the rudder went over, the skipper saw with satisfaction that the ship answered her helm.

By nine o’clock it was pitch dark, and the stars had begun to twinkle in the dark blue of the sky overhead, and soon afterwards the other sails were ready, and were set on the spars serving as main and mizzen masts. The torpedo-boat slipped still faster through the water, until she was making about four knots, while the men, highly satisfied with their work, had their frugal supper of stale bread and bully beef.

The hours dragged wearily by, but by midnight the breeze had developed into a strong wind, which still blew from the same direction. The sea, however, had got up, and the little ship wallowed

[Illustration: “He saw to his inexpressible relief that the entrance to Saldanha Bay was in sight.”

_To face page 57_ ]

heavily as she crawled along at her leisurely gait, but as the stars still shone it did not appear as if the weather was going to get any worse. The gunner and coxswain spent the whole night on deck, and at five o’clock the next morning the first signs of dawn appeared over a serrated band of obscurity on the horizon which could only be land. Hyne, exhausted as he was, felt quite cheerful when he saw it, and when daylight came he saw, to his inexpressible relief, that the entrance to Saldanha Bay was in sight a short distance to the northward.

Two hours later the crippled torpedo-boat crawled into the harbour, and passing several steamers and sailing craft at anchor, whose crews broke into ironical cheers as she crept by, finally dropped her anchor off the settlement.

“Well, sir,” remarked the chief E.R.A. to Hyne, as the latter went aft towards the wardroom hatch, “you’ve had your chance all right, if you’ll excuse my saying so, sir, and I reckon the Admiral’ll have something nice to say to you when we get back to Simonstown.”

“Nice!” sniffed Hyne. “Nice indeed! I expect he’ll order me to be court-martialled on the spot because the shaft broke. Endangering one of His Majesty’s ships, and all the rest of it!”

“I ’ope not!” declared Watson, dropping his h’s in his nervousness. “Hindeed! I ’ope not!”

“Well, we’ll see,” said the gunner, going down the ladder; “but meanwhile I’m going to send a wire reporting what has happened.”

* * * * *

A week later H.M. Torpedo-boat No. 60 arrived at Simonstown behind the second-class cruiser which had been sent to Saldanha Bay to tow her back. The news of her vicissitudes was already common property, and as she passed by, the men-of-war on her way to the dockyard, a string of coloured bunting crept to the masthead of the flagship and fluttered out in the breeze. An instant later the sides and rigging of the war vessels were black with men, and as No. 60 passed cheer after cheer rang out across the water.

“What the deuce do they want to make all that shindy about?” growled Hyne, who, if the truth must be told, felt rather relieved at the reception.

“I expects you’ll find out orl rite when yer reports yer arrival to the Admiral, sir,” murmured the coxswain.

An hour later the gunner was reporting his arrival to the Admiral on board the flagship. The Commander-in-Chief got up from the table at which he was writing.

“I’m glad to see you back, Mr. Hyne,” he said graciously, shaking hands. “I’m glad you came out of it all right. Let me hear all about it; your wire didn’t give me much news beyond the fact that you’d broken down and had ... er, sailed your torpedo-boat into Saldanha Bay.”

The story was soon told, and when the narrative was complete the Admiral rose from his chair.

“Mr. Hyne,” he said, “I congratulate you. I knew when I appointed you to No. 60 you’d do well, but I never expected this. I shall forward a report of your conduct to the Admiralty.”

“Thank you, sir!” gasped the astonished Hyne, his face turning the colour of a beet.

“And,” continued the Commander-in-Chief, “I shall be very pleased if you will come and dine at Admiralty House to-night. My wife will be interested in your story, and I’m afraid you’ll have to tell it all over again.”

* * * * *

Six weeks later Hyne was sitting on the deck of his little command, which was on the torpedo-boat slip in the dockyard, after having been fitted with a new screw shaft. It was a hot day, and he was half dozing in his chair with his pipe between his teeth, when he was roused by the sound of shouting from forward. Presently the signalman came running aft with a signal pad in his hand.

“What’s all the noise about forward?--tell ’em to stop it at once,” said Hyne.

“Signal, sir,” said the man, “just come from the flagship. Reads ‘Admiralty informs me that Mr. Samuel Hyne, gunner, has been promoted to the rank of lieutenant. I am sure that all officers and men under my command will congratulate this officer on his well-merited promotion.’”

“Good Lord!” gasped the newly-made lieutenant, hardly able to believe his ears. “Are you quite certain it is all right? Perhaps someone’s pulling my leg.”

“No, sir, they ain’t,” declared the signalman, breaking into a grin, “an’ th’ signal goes on to say: ‘Chief Engine-room Artificer Jeremiah Watson is advanced to the rank of Artificer Engineer!’”

“What’s that?” said a voice, as the chief E.R.A.’s head appeared on deck. “Let’s have a look. Are you sure it ain’t a ’oax?”

“’Oax, ’oax!” exclaimed the man; “beggin’ yer pardon, sir, the Admiral ain’t goin’ ter pull yer leg!”

He handed the signal pad across as he spoke.

“It’s all right,” said Hyne breathlessly. “I congratulate you, Mr. Watson.”

“Same here, Lieutenant Hyne,” said the other. “Didn’t I say, sir, as how they wouldn’t forget you? Aren’t you a jolly sight better off than Mister McFiggis, who got a bullet through ’im at Graspan?... Lor’ save us, though!” he added, “I didn’t know as I ’ad done anythink!”

“No, but I did, though,” said the new lieutenant, as he went below to figure out how much it would cost him to send a lengthy cable home to his wife in England.

IV

HORATIO NELSON CHIVERS

I

“Well, Mister Mate,” remarked Captain Sims, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, “the noon sights give her an average of ten and a half knots since noon yesterday. Pretty good goin’!”

“Good!” replied the mate. “I should think it was, sir! This old hooker isn’t exactly in her childhood.”

The master laughed. “Well,” he said, “I’ll go below and get my dinner, and after that I shall be in my room. I’ve a lot of work to get through.”

The mate nodded and smiled, for he knew well that the captain’s “work” was done lying down on his bunk with both eyes shut, and with an accompaniment of something which sounded suspiciously like snoring.

“Keep her goin’ sou’-sou’-east,” concluded the “old man,” moving down the poop ladder, “and let me know if you sight anything.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” said Meryon, as the skipper disappeared.

The steamer _Evelyn MacDonald_ was pursuing her leisurely way southward through the North Atlantic, on a voyage from London to Sydney, via the Cape of Good Hope. She carried a valuable general cargo, and up to the present the voyage had been eminently successful, for no contrary gales or heavy seas had retarded her progress. The vessel, a steam tramp of elderly build and sluggish demeanour, was surpassing herself, for though nine and a half or ten knots was her usual speed, the patent log dial on her taffrail was now registering no less than 10·5.

The weather was certainly beautiful, and, though there was hardly a cloud overhead in the sky to dim the brilliancy of the sun, the welcome breeze, ruffling the surface of the sea until it looked like a vast spread of sapphire-coloured velvet, mitigated the fierce rays from above. Life on board, therefore, even though the ship was only a few degrees north of the equator, was bearable, and even pleasant.

It had gone one bell in the afternoon watch, and the crew had finished their midday meal and were lolling about on the forecastle in various lethargic attitudes. Some were smoking and talking, but others had dropped off to sleep with their pipes between their teeth.

“What I likes about this ’ere ship,” one of them remarked to a friend, “is that we ’ave no bloomin’ dagoes aboard. We’re hall Henglish, leastways British, an’ I reckon there’s precious few other ’ookers flyin’ th’ Red Duster as can say that!”

“That’s so, mate,” replied another seaman, whose red hair had earned for him the inevitable nickname of “Ginger.” “I reckon we’ve struck ile this trip orl rite.”

“’Allo, there’s ’Oratio!” observed the first speaker, as the cook’s boy came out of the galley amidships and flung a bucket of dirty water over the ship’s side.

“’Allo, ’Oratio, me son,” cried Ginger, “’ow are ye gettin’ on dahn there? ’Ow’s th’ ole water spoiler inside?” The “water spoiler,” needless to remark, was the cook himself, Horatio’s immediate superior.

The boy--Horatio Nelson Chivers, to give him his full name--had been signed on as assistant and general bottle-washer to the cook at the last moment before the ship left England. The mate, seeing him loafing round the quay before the _Evelyn MacDonald_ sailed, had taken him on out of pure compassion, rather than with the idea that he would be of any use; and, if the truth must be told, Horatio Nelson was about as scraggy and as weedy a looking individual as it is possible to imagine.

He was an undersized youth of about fifteen--he didn’t know his real age--whose origin was wrapped in the realms of mystery, and though he knew his surname was Chivers and his Christian names, through some freak on the part of his mother and father, were Horatio Nelson, he was quite unacquainted with his parents, and was unaware who they had been, where they had lived, or where he himself had been born. For years he had contrived to make ends meet by selling newspapers in London, a precarious existence which often as not left him without the wherewithal to satisfy his gnawing hunger; but all his spare time was spent down at the docks in the East End, for he loved ships and everything to do with them. He had fully determined to become a sailor, perhaps because he was named after the greatest Admiral the world has ever known, but he had never been more surprised than when the mate of the _Evelyn MacDonald_, seeing a veritable scarecrow of a boy standing on the jetty close to the ship, asked him if he wanted to sign on.

He jumped at the opportunity with thankfulness in his heart, for he was desperately sick of the great city, and, above all, of endeavouring to sell newspapers to people who did not want them. He longed to be at sea, to see something of the world, and though he would have preferred to enter the Royal Navy, a bird in the hand was worth several in the bush, and he revelled in the idea of having regular meals. It is true that Mr. Meryon had given the boy the chance because he looked so utterly miserable, forlorn and wretched; but though the officer’s feelings had outweighed his judgment, it must be admitted he had never had cause to regret it, for ’Oratio, as he was familiarly called, was the life and soul of the ship, and was as cute and knowing as the day is long.

The youth shook the last few drops out of his bucket and then looked towards the forecastle.

“Cheero, Ginger!” he remarked, familiarly. “’Ow’s yer Rile ’Ighness gettin’ on?”

“’Oo are you callin’ Ginger?” demanded the seaman, not liking the allusion to the colour of his hair. “Ain’t I told yer my name’s Smith? Mister bloomin’ Smith, too, from the likes o’ you?”

“There’s ony one Ginger in this ’ere ship!” retorted Horatio innocently. “’Is Majesty King Ginger--King o’ all th’ Nuts!”

“Ho, hindeed!” snorted the King of the Nuts. “Look ’ere, Mister ’Oratio bloomin’ Nelson Chivers, or whatever yer darned tally is, I don’t stand no sauce from the likes o’ you! I’ve told yer ’afore I’ll ’ave none o’ yer imperence!”

“Won’t yer?” said the boy in mock surprise, making a deep obeisance.

“No, I won’t, yer young shaver, so just you keep a civil tongue in yer ’ead!”

“Orl rite, cully, keep yer ’air on!” drawled Horatio, disappearing into the galley.

“Drat th’ boy,” muttered Smith good-naturedly. “That ’Oratio o’ ourn is a cure, an’ no bloomin’ herror. King o’ th’ Nuts, hindeed!”

“’E’s a cheeky young divil!” agreed one of the other men, pushing down the tobacco in his pipe with a horny forefinger. “’E’s abart th’ bloomin’ limit, takin’ ’im orl round. ’E’s fillin’ art somethin’ wonderful, though,” he added with pride, for they all looked upon Horatio as belonging to them. “D’ye remember th’ wizened little scarecrow ’e was when ’e signed on?”

“Huh!” snorted Ginger. “Fillin’ art! ’E can’t bloomin’ well ’elp ’isself! Just look at th’ amount of scran ’e stows away in that little stummick o’ ’is! ’E’s---- Wot in ’evin’s that?” he suddenly broke off, as something round and hard hit him in the ribs. “S’welp me!” he added an instant later, picking up a potato. “It’s a spud!”

“’Oratio’s bombardin’ yer from th’ galley,” said his companion with a grin.

“I’ll give ’im ’Oratio when I catch ’im,” muttered Smith, leaping to his feet. “’Ere, you young swabtail!” he bellowed, catching sight of the boy with another missile ready to throw. “’Ere, give over chuckin’ them spuds!”

The boy’s reply came promptly, for another potato hurled through the air and hit his enemy fair and square on the shoulder. Ginger instantly dashed to the forecastle ladder with the intention of pursuing and chastising his assailant, but the latter, seeing him coming, had already vanished into the galley like a streak of greased lightning.

Further hostilities were interrupted by the bosun coming forward along the upper deck.

“Come on, lads, time’s up!” he shouted.

Ginger Smith was forced to postpone active operations upon Horatio to a more suitable opportunity, and while the boy sniggered with glee in his galley, the recumbent figures on the forecastle rose, stretched themselves, and were soon told off for their work for the afternoon.

“Gah!” shouted the precocious youth, putting his head out of the galley with a grimace as Smith passed with a paint-pot and brushes. “Look at th’ King o’ th’ Nuts goin’ to paint ’is pallus! Thought ye’d catch me, did yer?” He put his thumb to his nose and extended his fingers.

“You wait, my son!” muttered Smith wrathfully. “I’ll knock seven bells out o’ yer bloomin’ little carcase when I do get ’old o’ yer!”

He marched on aft, with Horatio making faces at him behind his back.

II

The afternoon wore on, and at about 3 p.m. a black smudge of smoke appeared over the horizon astern. It got larger and larger, spreading up in the clear sky like a mushroom-shaped cloud, until eventually the hull of a ship could be seen looming up in the distance. As yet she was too far off for details to be noticed, but the dense volumes of smoke issuing from her funnels showed that she was travelling fast. She overhauled the _Evelyn MacDonald_ rapidly, and by four o’clock was only four or five miles astern.

The captain had already been called and had come on the poop, and was gazing intently at her through a pair of binoculars.

“She’s a man-of-war, by the look of her,” he remarked to the mate. “Three funnels, so far as I can see, and painted dark grey.”

“She’ll be British,” answered Meryon. “Our men-of-war are that colour. I can’t see any ensign, though. By Jove!” he added in admiration; “she’s going a pretty good lick. Look at her bow wave!”

“She’s altering her course to close us,” observed the skipper, as the approaching vessel yawed lightly to starboard. “Stand by with your signal books and flags. I expect she wants to communicate.”

Soon afterwards the strange cruiser, for such, from her three funnels, she evidently was, was close astern.

“She’s not British!” exclaimed the mate confidently. “We’ve no craft in our navy like that!”

“What in earth is she, then?” demanded the skipper rather testily. “What does a bloomin’ foreigner want to come nosin’ round us for? Hoist the ens’n; perhaps she’ll hoist hers!”

The Red Ensign crept up to the peak, where it streamed out a vivid scarlet patch against the deep blue of the sky. The man-of-war may have noticed it, but if she did she made no sign of having done so, for she still came on at the same speed.

“By Jove!” cried the mate an instant later. “She’s a German!” He had just seen the ensign at the stranger’s gaff, where hitherto it had been hidden in her belching smoke.

“Yes,” returned the skipper, busy with a telescope. “She’s got a signal flying, too. L Q,” he added, picking out the colours of the flags. “Look it out in the book!”

“Heave to!” exclaimed Meryon in absolute astonishment, running his finger down the page and finding the place.

“Heave to!” snorted the skipper incredulously. “Can’t be! Let’s have a look!”

“It’s quite right, sir,” replied the mate, showing him the meaning.

“Heave to!” ejaculated the captain, with rising wrath. “What right has a bloomin’ foreigner to order us to heave to?”

“Don’t know, sir. Perhaps she’s made a mistake,” replied Meryon; but his voice sounded rather apprehensive.

“Mistake or not,” snapped the skipper, “I’m jiggered if I’ll heave to! I’ve never heard such a cursed bit o’ impertinence in my life!” He gazed over the taffrail and shook his fist wrathfully at the oncoming stranger, now barely four hundred yards behind.

Hardly had he done so, when a spit of flame broke out from the forecastle of the man-of-war. There was a loud report, and then, with a savage whine, a projectile hurtled through the air past the steamer and buried itself in the sea a hundred yards away to port.

The skipper glared at the spout of foam with absolute amazement and bewilderment written on his face.

“What the devil does she mean?” he roared, his face whitening with rage. “Firing on us! We’re not at war! I’ve never heard of such a thing!” He had great difficulty in controlling his wrath.

The mate, too, was struck dumb with astonishment, and stared at the cruiser with his mouth wide open. There really was something rather amazing in the idea of a German man-of-war stopping a British merchant ship on the high seas, but there was no mistaking the meaning of her peremptory demand.

“That gun, sir,” he remarked at length, “was meant to make us heave to!”

“I suppose it was, the beastly pirates!” muttered the captain angrily. “Well,” he continued, “it’s no use being sunk!” He wrenched the engine-room telegraph over to “Stop” as he spoke.

Hearing the report of the gun, the officers and men of the steamer were already on deck, gazing at the foreign warship with surprise and astonishment on their faces. The cruiser had now slowed down, and a minute later, when the _Evelyn MacDonald_ had slowed down, the grey man-of-war slid up abreast of her and barely two hundred yards off. The twin propellers churned the water into foam as they went astern at full speed, and then there came the piping of a boatswain’s whistle as a boat was lowered.

The crew of the _Evelyn MacDonald_ were clustered on deck hurling strange curses at the foreigner, while one or two of the more belligerent ones, Horatio, who had armed himself with the cook’s meat chopper, among them, were saying what they proposed to do to the boarding party when they should come on board.

“I’ll catch ’im a slosh on th’ jaw ’e won’t forgit in a ’urry!” piped the boy, feeling the edge of his weapon.

There was no doubt they all meant what they said, and realising that, if they offered resistance, the man-of-war would probably retaliate, Sims sent the mate forward to prevent them doing any mischief.

The cutter presently drew alongside. To the captain’s utter disgust, he was forced to lower a rope ladder, and then an officer, armed with sword and revolver, clambered on deck. He was followed by half a dozen seamen carrying loaded rifles, two of whom promptly made their way to the poop, where they took charge of the wheel, while the other four rounded up the crew of the steamer and made them hold their hands above their heads by threatening them with their weapons.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” thundered the skipper, advancing threateningly on the single foreigner who confronted him.

The officer’s hand slid to his revolver holster, which he unbuttoned ostentatiously.

“This is rank piracy!” bellowed Sims again.

“You do not know that Germany and England are at war?” asked the visitor in excellent English, glancing at the Red Ensign overhead and fingering his weapon.

“What?” snorted Sims, with a sniff of rage.

The foreigner smiled slightly and nodded.

“War? But what’s war been declared about?” asked the captain amazed.