Part 8

The _Sea Foam_ swung round and cleared the stern of the destroyer by barely twenty yards, and as she did so, shouting could be heard from the latter’s bridge.

“What are you knocking about for without lights, you pirate?” yelled an angry voice; “what ship is that?”

“The _Caledonia_, London to Barcelona. Sea’s put our lights out!” shouted back the skipper on the spur of the moment.

The mate laughed; but an instant later he exclaimed:

“She smells a rat, sir--she’s after us!”

It was true; for the destroyer, now right astern, was turning into the wake of the steamer, and, as the latter was steadied on her original course, volumes of sparks pouring from the funnels showed that she was being driven for all she was worth.

“They’ll have us, Barter,” gasped the skipper; “we can’t get away from her; she’ll go twenty-five knots at least!”

The man-of-war, however, had to turn, and by the time she was following the _Sea Foam_ she was fully half a mile astern. At that moment a dense, blinding shower of rain drove down from the windward, shutting out all lights and making it impossible to see more than one hundred yards ahead. The skipper was not long in taking advantage of it, and on his shouting “Hard-a-starboard!” to the man at the wheel, the steamer’s bows were turned until she was pointing at right angles to her old course.

“She’ll think we’ve gone straight on,” said the captain in an anxious tone, “and if this squall lasts she may not spot us!”

The mate looked anxiously astern and to windward, but there were no signs of the warship, and it was still raining heavily. “I think we shall do it, sir!” he said, as he walked to the compass to give a direction to the man at the wheel.

A quarter of an hour passed, the minutes seeming like hours to those on the bridge, but still the _Sea Foam_ forged ahead. At the end of this time the squall was beginning to clear--and the destroyer was nowhere visible.

“Have the lamps lit, Barter, and bring her back to south-east,” ordered the captain. “We’ve given her the slip.”

They had.

II

“That was a narrow squeak,” cried the captain, as he mopped his streaming face; “if it hadn’t been for that squall we’d have been collared! If she does sight us now, I expect she’ll take us for someone else, as we’ve got our lights burning.”

“Yes, sir, I thought she’d have us,” exclaimed Barter, “and I don’t fancy a spell in gaol. I suppose we’d get that for gun-running! It’s a pretty serious offence to be collared smuggling arms out of a country for another country at war!”

“Yes, it’d be prison and a fine, Barter. But it’s a paying game. We stand to get something pretty considerable between us if we can dump this lot in the Gulf of Sidra without being collared!”

Jim, seeing that the conversation was evidently not intended for his ears, and not wishing to be caught eavesdropping, slipped quietly down the bridge ladder and went below to the pantry, where the steward set him to prepare the table for the officers’ supper. Soon afterwards, leaving the second mate on deck, the captain and Barter came below and had their meal, and this being concluded Jim went to the cabins to tidy up for the night. Whilst turning down the second mate’s bed, he saw in a little bookshelf over the head of the bunk a small, thin book labelled “Atlas,” and knowing that the officer was on the bridge, and that he would not be disturbed, he abstracted the book from its resting-place and turned to the index at the end.

“Sidra, Gulf of (Africa), 31° O′ N. 19° O′ E.,” he read, and, having some slight knowledge of geography, he turned to the map of Africa to ascertain exactly where the place was. It did not take him long, for he soon found out that the place was on the north coast of Africa, in Tripoli, and that it lay just to the southward of a town marked on the map as Bengazi.

He knew that Italy and Turkey were at war, and he had read, on the rare occasions when he had looked at a newspaper in the public library, that fighting was going on in Tripoli. Putting two and two together, therefore, he came to the conclusion that the _Sea Foam_ had on board a cargo of rifles and ammunition destined for the Turks, and in this he was quite correct. Putting the book back in its place, he left the cabin; and that night, as he lay in his bunk, he pondered over what he had discovered. The mate’s expression “gun-running” made him feel rather frightened; for he knew that it was a serious offence for the ships of a neutral State to supply arms to a belligerent country. If he had known the true state of affairs he would never have asked for a berth, but as he had, there was no way out of it, and he meant to see the thing through. After all, he thought, they could not very well put him in prison, and the idea of an adventure rather attracted him; so he determined to make the best of it. While thinking over the situation, he fell into a dreamless sleep which the violent movement of the ship did not disturb, and the next morning, when routed out by the steward to prepare the officers’ breakfast, he felt a very different being to the miserable youth who had joined the ship twenty-four hours before.

As the ship proceeded down Channel and out into the open Atlantic the weather steadily improved, and by the time Ushant had been rounded and the Bay of Biscay reached, there was nothing but a slight north-easterly swell, which, accompanied as it was by a clear blue sky and a brilliant sun, caused no inconvenience.

Nothing beyond the usual round of daily duties occurred to relieve the monotony of the voyage, and Jim found that, although he had to work hard while he was at it, he had plenty of leisure. He was having quite a good time; for, though the captain was inclined to be grumpy occasionally, neither he nor the officers abused or ill-treated Jim, so, on the whole, his lot was a happy one. The mate, seeing that he was far above the ordinary run of boys usually found in small steamers, took a liking to him from the very outset, and many a time Mr. Barter would go out of his way to explain things. In this way Jim soon picked up a smattering of sea-faring knowledge.

The old steward himself was a walking nautical encyclopædia, for he had been a seaman before a permanent lameness had forced him to undertake the lighter duties of steward. He was never tired of spinning yarns, and Jim never wearied of listening to them.

The ship steamed southward at ten knots along the coasts of Spain and Portugal, visible as a blue chain of hills far away to port. The weather was perfect, and Jim felt that life was well worth living.

One day, while clearing the table after the officers’ midday meal, he overheard a conversation between the captain and the mate.

“Barter,” the former said, “I’ve been thinking about that Customs boat. Do you think they had any notion of where we were going?”

“They must have had,” replied the other; “they wouldn’t have been so keen on stopping us, otherwise.”

“Well,” continued the skipper, “it’s quite possible that if they know we’re going through the Straits they’ll have wired to Gibraltar to send out a couple of cruisers or torpedo craft to stop us. How would it be to paint the ship another colour? This grey’s rather a ‘give away,’ it’s so uncommon.”

“Yes, we can do that all right, captain. I’ll get the hands on to it the first thing to-morrow morning; I’ve got plenty of black paint, and we can slap that over the hull and give her a black funnel with a red band, or something of the kind.”

“Yes, that’ll do. And paint the name out, too; but put in another, though; it would never do to have none at all.”

“All right, sir; will _Caledonia_ do?” queried the mate, with a grin.

“Yes, that’s all right. We shall be passing through the Straits by daylight, so make a good job of it.”

The next morning all the available men were slung over the side with paint-pots and brushes, and in a short time the grey _Sea Foam_ had been transformed into the _Caledonia_, a black ship with a black funnel with red band.

Early the next morning Cape Trafalgar was in sight, and a few hours later the ship had entered the Straits of Gibraltar, keeping well towards the African shore. She was about half-way through, when right ahead, and apparently stopped, were sighted two large cruisers, one with four funnels, lying directly in the steamer’s track.

“They’re both Britishers,” exclaimed the mate, who was on watch; “that four-funnelled chap’s one of the _Aboukir_ class.”

“I wonder if they’re after us?” asked the skipper, feeling rather nervous; “lucky we gave her a lick of paint yesterday. Perhaps they won’t recognise us.”

“I don’t know so much about that!” answered Barter; “these Royal Navy chaps are pretty spry; I was in the Reserve myself once, and I know ’em.”

“Well, if they heave us to we’ll hoist the yellow flag and tell them we’re from Lisbon to Port Said. There’s plague at Lisbon, and they’d hardly dare board us, the regulations are so strict.”

The _Sea Foam_ steamed on, and was soon close to the great man-of-war. No notice had apparently been taken of her, and the skipper and mate were congratulating themselves that they were not going to be stopped when the cruiser suddenly fired a blank gun to leeward, and at the same time a string of signal flags fluttered out from her fore masthead.

“Hang it,” growled the captain, “there’s no mistaking that!” And as he spoke he walked to the engine-room telegraph and rang down “Stop!”

“O.S.C., I.O.X.,” muttered the mate, rapidly turning over the papers of the signal box to find out the meaning of the flags.

“Heave to. I wish to communicate,” he said to the captain, when he had found the place.

“Hoist the yellow flag at the fore!” shouted the latter; and even as he spoke a boat from the man-of-war was half-way across the stretch of water dividing the two ships.

“What ship is that?” shouted a midshipman, as the cutter approached.

“_Caledonia_; Lisbon to Port Said; general cargo,” answered the captain in reply.

As if to verify his statement, the boat pulled under the stern, and there the officer read the name and port of registry, which, luckily, had been altered the day previous to “_Caledonia_, London.”

“Hope he doesn’t spot our new paint!” ejaculated Barter nervously, as the boat pulled forward again.

“All right, sir, I’ll go and report,” shouted the officer, whose suspicions had apparently not been aroused. “You haven’t by any chance seen a grey steamer called the _Sea Foam_, have you?”

“No, haven’t seen anything of her,” replied the captain, turning his face to hide his smiles.

“All right, you can proceed on your voyage,” came the reply.

“Thank heaven!” exclaimed the skipper, as he put the engine-room telegraph to full speed ahead, and motioned to the helmsman to resume his original course; “that’s our third escape! I wonder how many more we shall have.”

“You’ve got the whole Italian fleet to dodge yet, sir,” remarked Barter.

Soon afterwards the speed of the _Sea Foam_ was increased to fifteen knots, for this would bring the ship to her destination about 11 p.m. on the fourth night after leaving the Straits.

The time passed without incident, and the last day of the voyage broke fine and clear. From daylight the captain and mate were on the bridge gazing anxiously ahead for the columns of smoke that would betoken the presence of men-of-war. They had their meals brought up to them by Jim, and the boy himself could not help feeling his spirits rise as the ship forged ahead and no warships were seen. The hours passed rapidly, and at length the sun set in the western horizon in a blaze of scarlet and orange, but still the _Sea Foam_ steamed along at fifteen knots. All her lights were extinguished, and there was nothing to proclaim her whereabouts except the phosphorescent welter churned up by the screw, and a ruddy glow at the funnel-top.

The captain and Barter were still keeping their weary vigil on the bridge, looking ahead through the darkness, when suddenly Jim, who was on deck, saw a rapidly-moving light about a mile away on the starboard side of the ship. It was moving fast in an opposite direction to the steamer. Rushing on to the bridge, he seized Mr. Barter by the arm and drew his attention to it.

The mate snatched the binoculars, and after gazing at the light for a second or two he exclaimed to the captain:

“There’s a destroyer out there, sir. No, there’s more than one--two, four; I can count six, sir--steaming very fast in single file.”

“I wonder if they’ve spotted us?” gasped the captain.

“I don’t think so,” replied the other, “they’re moving away.”

“Lucky there’s no moon and it’s a dark night!”

“They must have been keeping a pretty rotten look out, though,” rejoined Barter; “Watson, here, spotted them all right.”

The destroyers vanished in the gloom astern, and the _Sea Foam_ steamed rapidly on towards her destination. Ten o’clock came, but no more men-of-war were sighted, and about half an hour later the skipper, pointing ahead, suddenly exclaimed:

“We’re getting close, Barter; I can see the land ahead and on both bows. Get the anchor ready, and get a man along with a lead.”

The dark shadow of the land was now distinctly visible, and, with the engines eased to “dead slow,” the steamer crept cautiously ahead.

“And a quarter-nine!” came the long-drawn-out cry from the man with the lead. “A quarter less eight!” came the next sounding, a minute later.

The water was shoaling rapidly, and as the land was evidently getting close the ship was stopped, and the captain hailed the forecastle to let go the anchor. The rusty monster fell with a splash and a rattle of cable--the journey was over.

Going to the end of the bridge, the captain then fired a blue light, and its appearance was the signal for a chorus of yells a short distance off on the starboard beam.

“They’re there all right, then!” he ejaculated; “I arranged with the fellow in London to be here at eleven o’clock to-night, and we’ve just done it! Hark at ’em shouting!”

The howling drew closer, and before long three large Arab dhows stole into the circle of light and made fast alongside. An officer in Turkish uniform clambered on board, and going to the bridge he wrung the captain by the hand.

“You haf arrived, my friend!” he exclaimed in broken English, “with many good rifles? Aha! Haf you seen those Italian ships?”

“Yes, we saw ’em all right,” said the skipper, “but they didn’t see us!”

“That is good!” replied the other. “I haf brought tree dhow, an’ plenty men. Are you ready to unload now?”

“Yes, quite ready.” The hatch covers had been removed and the derricks topped during the afternoon; and, even as he spoke, the winches started their rattle as the unloading commenced.

There was no need of concealment now, and every soul in the ship, Jim and the steward included, worked with a will. Case after case containing rifles and ammunition was slung over the side into the dhows alongside, and at length, at three o’clock the following morning, the steamer’s holds were cleared of her cargo.

Just as the first signs of dawn appeared in the east the _Sea Foam_ weighed her anchor and steamed seawards, and soon afterwards the coast was out of sight, and the vessel was steaming placidly homewards through a calm sea with no vessels in sight.

* * * * *

Nothing more remains to be said, except that in due course the ship arrived in London, where the captain drew the money due to him for the successful enterprise. Each member of the crew received a substantial bonus, and Jim, to his surprise, was included in the award.

“Here you are, my boy,” said the skipper, as he handed him the money. “You’ve been a good lad, and you deserve it. I’m chucking the sea now, but if you are ever stranded, come to me.”

“Thank you, sir!” answered Jim, with tears of gratitude in his eyes; and after saying good-bye to the mate and steward, he left the ship for good. He could not help feeling a pang of regret, for in the short time he had been on board he had grown fond of the ship and her officers; but shouldering the bag containing his scanty belongings, he trudged citywards.

The money he had received so unexpectedly enabled him to buy a third-class passage to Australia, where in due time he joined his uncle. He is now employed on a sheep farm, and is in a fair way to doing well for himself, but he will never forget his one and only experience of gun-running in the Mediterranean.

VIII

THE ESCAPE OF THE _SPEEDWELL_

“Gude marnin’ to ye, John Marsh,” croaked old Thomas Wiles, looking over the side of the little wooden quay and watching the fisherman in the boat busy with his lines.

“Marnin’, feyther!” replied Marsh cheerily, looking up at the old man with a pleasant smile. “What d’ye make o’ th’ weather?”

“Middlin’ fine, me son,” answered the ancient, taking the pipe out of his mouth and looking up at the sky. “Middlin’ fine. Sou’-westerly breeze’ll hold. We’ll have a drap o’ rain, maybe, but nothin’ much, I’m thinkin’.”

Wiles, aged eighty, was the oldest man in the village of Bembridge, in the Isle of Wight, and being an old man-of-war’s man was generally regarded as the local know-all on all matters nautical. The fishermen of the place used to flock to the Barleycorn tavern to hear the words of wisdom which fell from the old seaman’s lips, and though they did sometimes laugh at him behind his back, and call him an old croaker, it must be admitted that his prognostications regarding the weather usually turned out to be correct, and that, more often than not, they took his advice. He had served in the Navy “way back in th’ ’sixties,” as he himself called it, and though it was now 1805, and he was firmly convinced that “th’ Sarvice was gwine to th’ dawgs; nothin’ like ’twas when I was in th’ ole _Andromeeda_,” he never tired of watching the frigates and line-of-battle ships when they sometimes came to an anchor in St. Helen’s Roads.

He watched Marsh for some minutes without speaking.

“Be ye gwine out this marnin’?” he inquired at length.

“Yes, feyther,” answered the fisherman with a nod. “Me an’ Tom here,” he pointed to his fourteen-year-old son, who was hard at work baiting some lines. “Me an’ Tom has our livin’ t’earn.”

The old wiseacre on the jetty shook his head in disapproval.

“Bean’t ye afeerd o’ bein’ copped by them Frenchies?” he asked. “Them privateers wot got ole Tom Martin t’other day?”

“Afeerd, feyther,” laughed Marsh. “No, I bean’t afeerd, I reckon, but I doan’t want to see th’ inside o’ one o’ them prisons. Lor’ bless me, though, when I wus in the Sarvice along o’ Lard Nelson, we allus said each man was wuth three on ’em froggies!” He spat over the side to show his contempt.

Marsh himself had served in the Navy, but had retired some years before to eke out a scanty livelihood by fishing, and though his profits were not large, they had sufficed to keep his wife and two children. Tom, his eldest son, had been used to his father’s boat for the last four years, and always accompanied him on his expeditions to his favourite fishing ground near the Owers shoal off Selsey Bill, and as the boy had made up his mind to enter the Navy when he was old enough, there was no doubt that his knowledge of boat work and his general acquaintance with the sea would help him to become a prime seaman in His Majesty’s Fleet when his turn came.

“Well, me son,” resumed Wiles after a lengthy silence. “Maybe ye ain’t afeerd on ’em, but mark me words, ye’ll sing a diff’rent tune if they cops ye an’ claps ye an’ Tom in one o’ them prisons. The grub’s crool bad!” The old man shook his head knowingly, and stumped off up the jetty on his way back to the Barleycorn.

There was no doubt about it that Marsh was running a grave risk, for it was 1805, and war time, and the Channel swarmed with the enemy’s privateers. The latter, as a general rule, were luggers varying in size between fifty and seventy tons, and were used, in time of peace, as fishing craft. Now, however, as war had taken away their legitimate vocation, the owners of these _chasse-marées_ had converted them into privateers by fitting them with small guns and manning them with large crews armed to the teeth. They were extraordinarily fast, and would swoop down on any defenceless vessels they came across, and carry them off from under the very noses of the British frigates and sloops-of-war stationed in the Channel. Even the merchant ships in the home-coming convoys, protected though they were by men-of-war, were not safe from capture, while the hostile luggers would often approach the English coast in broad daylight and harry the hapless fishing craft within a mile or two of the shore. The crews would be captured, the prizes looted and burnt, and then the _chasse-marées_ would clap on all sail and make off, trusting to their superior speed to escape. They generally succeeded in doing so, in spite of the vigilance of the men-of-war, and the consequence was many English fishermen found themselves in French prisons, while many more, unwilling to face the risk of losing all they possessed, were thrown out of employment and stayed ashore with starvation staring them in the face. Marsh, however, had had good luck up to date, and had never so much as sighted a privateer, and although he fully realised the risk he was running in continuing his fishing, he was not to be put off, in spite of old Wiles and his dismal warnings. “Needs must where the devil drives,” and his occupation was the only thing he could rely upon to keep his family and himself from absolute penury.

Soon afterwards, therefore, the _Speedwell_ had slipped her moorings and was sailing seawards with the fair south-westerly breeze. She was a handy little cutter-rigged craft of about five tons, and carried a large spread of canvas which gave her a good turn of speed in anything like a wind, and by noon she had reached her destination. The sails were furled, and the anchor dropped, and after the midday meal father and son were soon busy fishing with lines.

The fish were biting well, and by the latter part of the afternoon the little wooden tank amidships was all but filled with pollack, ling, whiting, and many other varieties of fish.

“Are ye thinkin’ o’ goin’ back home this a’ternoon, Dad?” asked Tom, rebaiting a hook and throwing it overboard.