Sea, spray and spindrift

it went, spelling out the word HELP time after time.

But the Chinese had spotted the flag, and before Jim had been at work for two minutes he heard wild yells, and an instant later the rifles of his comrades were once more hard at work.

II

H.M. Sloop Lucifer was proceeding towards the Shantung Promontory at a steady twelve knots.

On her bridge the lieutenant on watch leant listlessly against a stanchion, slowly sweeping his telescope from side to side as he gazed through it at the land on the port bow. He was doing it more from pure force of habit than anything else, but he suddenly gave vent to a low exclamation, and, bracing himself up, held his glass perfectly steady.

“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” he remarked to himself, “there’s a steamer ashore there with some junks alongside her, and someone’s waving something white from one of her ports. Short short short short, short, short long short short, short long long short,” he read out. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed, “the fellow’s spelling out HELP!”

He left his position and went amidships, and, leaning over the bridge, gave an order to the man at the wheel below.

“Starboard, three points!”

The helmsman put the wheel over, and while the Lucifer swung round until her bows were pointing directly towards the stranded vessel, a messenger was sent to the commander to inform him of what had been sighted, and, before a minute had passed, he was on the bridge gazing intently at the stranded ship through his binoculars.

“It’s my opinion,” he remarked at length, and seeing the white flag waving to and fro, “that the Chinamen from those junks are giving the fellows on board that steamer a pretty rotten time. She probably ran ashore in that fog early this morning, and they’re looting her.”

He walked across to the engine-room telegraph, and jammed it on to “Full Speed.”

“Travers,” he resumed, turning to the officer of the watch, “get a gun’s crew up and load one of the foremost 4-inch guns.”

The lieutenant saluted, and a few minutes later the quickfirer had been cleared away, and its lean muzzle was pointing in the direction of the steamer.

It was not until the sloop was within a couple of miles of the wreck that the pirates noticed her, but the minute they did so they were flung into a state of frantic confusion, for they could be seen tumbling over each other in their haste as they clambered down the sides of the steamer and aboard their junks.

By the time the Lucifer was within half a mile the clumsy native craft had hoisted their sails and were speeding back towards the village.

The commander slowed his engines, and at the same moment hailed the officer on the forecastle. The gun muzzle quivered until it was pointing full at the leading junk, now well clear of the Hoi-Hau, and a second later there was a sharp report, a sheet of blinding flame, and a four-inch shell screeched its way through the air.

. . . . . .

Aboard the Hoi-Hau things had not been progressing very satisfactorily.

Again and again the Chinese had attacked and had been repulsed, but finally the sheer weight of numbers had told, and when at last the ammunition of the defenders had dwindled to an alarming degree, the pirates had succeeded in reaching the bulkhead.

Once in this position, the British could not fire without exposing themselves, and the enemy began to beat down the door to get at those inside.

Captain McCaul and his officers had made up their minds for the worst, when Jim suddenly stopped waving his flag.

“Hurrah!” he yelled. “She’s coming this way!”

The welcome announcement put new heart into the defenders and they nerved themselves for a desperate resistance, for the entry of the Chinese was now a matter of minutes.

A short time later events took quite an unexpected turn. The enemy, seeing the approaching man-of-war for the first time, suddenly abandoned the attack and retreated to their junks, while the defenders, too thankful to speak, made their way out of the saloon and went on deck.

Closer and closer came the little sloop, until, when the junks were all clear of the steamer and had hoisted their sails, she opened fire. The first shell struck up the water a hundred yards short of the leading junk, and flew off into the air with a savage whine.

The pirates redoubled their efforts to escape, shrieking and yelling as they plied the sweeps to assist the sails. But it was too late, and their efforts were in vain, for the four-inch gun barked

again, and this time the projectile hit the leading junk full in the stern.

Jim had a fleeting glimpse of a sheet of flame; he saw the masts of the native craft falling, whilst masses of debris were flung skywards by the force of the powerful explosive.

When the smoke cleared away the junk was barely recognisable, for she lay low in the water like a derelict, and already the flames were licking at her battered timbers.

Another sharp report came from the sloop, and this time the shot pitched into the water under the bows of a second enemy.

The Chinese then realised that the game was up, for, lowering the sails, most of them jumped overboard and began to swim for the shore, while before very long the Lucifer’s boats, filled with armed bluejackets, were taking possession of the abandoned craft.

Soon afterwards the commander of the sloop came aboard the Hoi-Hau.

“Good morning, captain,” he said, advancing towards McCaul, and glancing round the decks in astonishment. “You seem to have been having a pretty bad time.”

“If you hadn’t come,” said the skipper gratefully, wringing his visitor’s hand, “they’d have broken down the door and murdered the lot of us.”

“By the way,” remarked the commander, “Who was that fellow of yours making signals to us?”

“Here he is,” replied McCaul, pushing Jim forward. “He’s my son.”

“It’s lucky you made that signal, youngster,” said the naval officer. “We’d spotted you all right, but if you hadn’t waved your flag we might have been too late. Where did you learn your Morse, by the way?”

“I’m a Scout, sir,” Jim explained, blushing furiously.

“Just as well you are, my boy,” said the officer with a twinkle in his eye. “You ought to be proud of your son, captain,” he resumed, turning to McCaul.

“Proud!” laughed the skipper. “Proud! Of course I am!”

. . . . . .

When the tide rose, the Hoi-Hau floated off the rocks with but little damage, and before long was once more on her voyage to Chifu.

The bluejackets of the sloop succeeded in capturing the greater number of the pirates, and it was subsequently found that they belonged to a notorious band who had preyed on the defenceless trading junks for some time past.

Jim, as may well be imagined, has never forgotten his one and only brush with pirates.

III

THE GUNNER’S LUCK

H.M. Torpedo-boat Number 60 was pursuing her way northward along the western coast of Cape Colony at a steady ten knots. As a matter of fact the exact course was N.N.W., and this took the little craft along parallel to the coast and some fifteen miles off it, while Robben Island, thirty miles to the northward of Capetown, had been abeam at noon, so the ship was well on her way up the coast in the direction of Cape Castle.

It was a beautiful afternoon, with a clear blue sky, unflecked by the least vestige of cloud, while the sun overhead converted the sea into one vast expanse of shimmering light. There was a gentle breeze from the south-east, but it was not sufficient to raise a sea, and the great ocean was only disturbed by a slight swell rolling in from the westward, over which the little torpedo-boat rode with an easy movement.

It was 1901, when the South African War was at its height and the whole of Cape Colony and Natal was one great military camp. The daily arrival of transports had come to be looked upon as a mere matter of routine, for the war had been going on for eighteen months. The Navy, too, was not idle, for many men belonging to the Cape of Good Hope Squadron had been at the front with their guns, fighting side by side with their soldier comrades, while the coasts of Cape Colony and Natal had also to be patrolled.

There were at that time comparatively few ships on the Cape station, and as many hundreds of miles of coast had to be covered, all the torpedo-boats in reserve at the naval base at Simonstown had been requisitioned for this service, and though hardly suitable for the task, they performed their work with a thoroughness which left nothing to be desired. Through lack of lieutenants the greater number of them were commanded by gunners, and No. 60, the little vessel with which we are concerned, was in charge of Mr. Samuel Hyne, a warrant officer of this rank.

Small as she was, he was proud of her, and though her 65 tons displacement, her 127½ feet of length, her 15 men, and her armament of four 14-inch torpedo tubes, besides one three-pounder Hotchkiss and a solitary 45-inch maxim, made her a very puny and insignificant little craft, she was, in Hyne’s eyes, quite the smartest thing afloat flying the White Ensign. He was proud of her, for his pennant flew at her masthead, and though in 1886, when she first saw the light of day, she could do her 20½ knots with her single screw, and now could steam no more than, as he himself would call it, “eighteen and a kick,” he revelled, like many others, in the delights of his first independent command.

Close alongside the after torpedo tubes, and near the hatch leading to the stuffy wardroom, the skipper sat on a camp stool having a friendly yarn with the chief engine-room artificer, Watson, who, though only a chief petty officer, was the engineer of the ship. It was hardly possible to tell the chief E.R.A. from his commanding officer, for both were clad in nothing but trousers and singlets open at the neck. It was noticeable, though, that the engineer never omitted the “Sir” when addressing his senior, even though the two men were close friends.

“It’s all very well for you to say I’m lucky to have this job,” the gunner was saying. “I dare say I am, but lucky or not, I’d far sooner have had a chance of getting to the front!”

“Yes,” nodded the chief E.R.A., reaching for his tobacco pouch, “but if you ’ad, sir, maybe you’d a got a bullet through you, same as Mister McFiggis, o’ the Doris, did up at Graspan. ’E was full o’ beans when ’e left the ship, but ’e nearly pegged out in ’orspital. Lor’ bless me ’eart an’ soul, ’e didn’t want no more soldierin’. Lor’ lumme, no!”

“I wouldn’t mind running the risk of that,” answered Hyne, “if only I had the chance of doing something. They’ll get medals and bars, and distinguished service orders, and goodness only knows what, and I’m busted if we’ll get so much as a bloomin’ ‘thank you’ for patrolling this blessed coast. Not so much as a thank you,” he reiterated mournfully, glancing at the dull purple serrated edge of the mountains away on the starboard beam. “I’m sick of it all!”

“Well, it’s not your fault, sir,” went on the chief E.R.A. “You can’t do more’n obey your orders, an’ if you don’t get your chance you don’t, and that’s all about it.”

The gunner laughed, and both men relapsed into a silence which was only broken by the gentle ripple of the water as the torpedo-boat forced her way through it.

The afternoon wore on, and at four o’clock Hyne went forward to relieve the coxswain on watch. The orders were turned over, and the petty officer went aft to his little cupboard of a mess, and was soon busy with his tea, which meal consisted of stale bread, fried eggs of doubtful origin, and well-stewed navy tea with no milk, for in those days condensed milk was not served out by a paternal Government.

It was about one bell in the first dog-watch (4.30 p.m.) that the gunner, who was gazing abstractedly at the distant land, felt a sudden tremor from the after part of the ship. At first he paid no attention to it, for the little ship always vibrated badly, but when there came an awful bump, followed by a jarring grind, and then a fearful clatter from the neighbourhood of the engine-room, he realised something serious had happened, and commenced to run aft.

He was just in time to see the chief E.R.A. disappear down the engine-room hatch like a shot rabbit, while the coxswain, with an anxious face, was climbing up the ladder from his mess.

“What’s happened?” cried Hyne.

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” answered Naylor, the coxswain. “Me an’ th’ chief was sittin’ in th’ mess when we ’ears a bump an’ then a grindin’, an’ then th’ engines start ’eavin’ round fit ter bust!”

Descending the greasy ladder, the gunner went below into the engine-room. Seeing a group of perspiring men in the after part of the little compartment, he went up to them.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Shaft’s gone clean in half, sir,” said Watson, looking up.

“Lord help us!” gasped the skipper. “Is it possible to do anything to it?”

“No, sir,” replied Watson, wiping his perspiring face with a bit of dirty oily waste until it was streaked with black. “It’s a proper dockyard job I’m afraid, it’s gone clean across!”

“Are we making any water?”

“Don’t think so, sir,” said the other. “If we had a’ been it ’ud found its way for’ard by this time. It’ll have strained the stern gland a bit, but the broken part of the shaft’s still there, and I expect I can keep the flow under with the ejectors.”

“I hope you can,” remarked Hyne, “but let’s go aft and have a look.”

They left the engine-room, and going aft along the upper deck visited all the stern compartments in turn.

“There’s no damage to speak of,” said Watson, when the survey was completed. “Th’ gland’s weeping a bit more’n usual, an’ one or two rivet heads are sheared off an’ one or two plates a bit buckled. We can keep the water under all right, an’ I’ll get th’ ejectors workin’ at once. But we can’t steam another inch, of course.”

He vanished below, and while he set the pumps to work Hyne thought over the situation. He was placed in a most unenviable position, for No. 60, having, like the majority of the older torpedo-boats, only one screw, was absolutely helpless with her tail shaft fractured. Even if they had a spare length of shafting it could not be placed in position. He grew pale as he thought of what might happen. The mighty Agulhas current would carry the disabled ship to the northward, and though he had food and water sufficient for perhaps a week’s consumption if he put the men on half rations, affairs still looked pretty desperate, unless some passing steamer gave the torpedo-boat a tow into harbour. She was, however, out of the track of steamers running to Capetown, and her size did not make her a very conspicuous object.

The one small dinghy the little vessel carried would not accommodate more than eight of her men at the very outside, and if the ship had to be abandoned the other men would have to be towed astern in life-buoys, while their progress would naturally be slow, and their chance of reaching the coast, twenty miles distant, doubtful in the extreme. Even allowing that it was possible, the sea was infested with sharks, so Hyne dismissed the idea as impossible almost as soon as he thought of it.

Going aft he was met by the coxswain.

“Get the ship’s company aft, Naylor,” he ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Soon afterwards the little crew had been collected, and, stepping forward, the petty officer reported, “Ship’s company present, sir,” in his best battleship manner.

“Men,” began Hyne, getting on to the after torpedo tube, “I’ve not brought you up here to spin a long yarn. You all know what’s happened, and that we’re practically helpless twenty miles from land, and out of the track of shipping. We’ve got three days’ grub on board, say four with what we’ve got in the wardroom, so, in case of accidents, we’ll pool the lot and put everyone on half whack!

“It’s a poor look out, I don’t mind telling you,” he went on to say, “but still we’ve a chance. The weather’s fine, and though we can’t steam, we can sail....

“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

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.

“That is not my affair,” answered the foreigner. “I do my duty without asking why!”

“Why, man,” the Englishman remarked, his amusement almost getting the better of his annoyance, “you’ll have the whole of our navy buzzin’ round your ears in no time!”

“We will fight!” retorted the foreigner with impatience.

“Humph!” muttered the skipper. “The deuce you will! Meanwhile, may I ask what you mean to do with this ship?”

“Our navy has orders to sink and destroy the British fleet, and to capture or burn all merchant ships!”

Sims gasped.

“Yes,” continued the lieutenant grandiloquently. “A prize crew shall be put on board, and she shall be taken to Duala!”

“But I’m not carrying contraband of war!” protested the captain, longing to go for the foreigner with his fists.

“All the English are our enemies!” declared the other. “Come,” he continued rudely, “I am not used to bandy words with a merchant captain. I wish to see your papers, and I must warn you that, if there is any attempt at resistance, my ship will fire on you!”

Sims’s longing to strike out almost got the better of him, but he saw that it was no use arguing any further, so swallowed the insult without replying.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, leading the way to his cabin.

The foreign officer beckoned to one of his men before he disappeared under the poop, and a minute or two later the Red Ensign was hauled down and replaced by the white black-crossed ensign of the German navy.

Seeing it, the anger of the British crew nearly overcame them, and for some moments their insensate rage tempted them to attack their captors. They cursed and swore fluently, but eventually their discretion got the upper hand, for they saw how useless it was to resist.

An hour later the ship had been taken possession of by a prize crew of fifteen men and a warrant officer, under the command of a lieutenant. Having transferred them, the cruiser proceeded on her way, and, threatened by the revolvers and rifles of their gaolers, the unfortunate Englishmen were compelled to go to their posts and work their vessel, steering towards the south-east for her new destination.

This having been done, the captain and officers were locked in their respective cabins, the crew were driven down into the forecastle, while armed sentries pacing the deck effectually prevented any intercommunication.

The Evelyn MacDonald was a prize.

III

The next morning the ship was still standing to the south-eastward on her course for Duala.

The lieutenant in command was a better-tempered individual than the officer who had first come on board, and intimated to Captain Sims that he and his officers would be permitted to use the saloon for their meals, while they would also be allowed one hour’s exercise on deck in the morning and afternoon. He informed him, however, that any abuse of this privilege would be visited by more rigorous treatment, and that if any attempt were made to capture the vessel, the prisoners would instantly be fired upon. The only members of the crew who were not confined were Horatio and the steward, for they, between them, were responsible for the cooking and serving of all the meals throughout the ship, for captors and prisoners alike. Even they, however, were closely watched, for there was always an armed sentry somewhere near the galley while they were at work.

Horatio went about his labours in a despondent manner, which formed a complete contrast to his cheery disposition of a week before. He had plenty to do, but chafed at the idea of being ordered about by foreigners, and every time he looked at the foreign flag flying at the peak his blood boiled with mingled rage and humiliation. Puny and insignificant as he was, he was British to the core. British blood flowed in his veins, and he seriously thought of attacking the sentries single-handed with his chopper. He even asked the steward’s advice as to how it could best be done, but the older man, realising the utter futility of such an attempt, made him, after great difficulty, promise that he would not try it.

Foiled in his ideas of active measures, the boy then set to work to think of some other way of recapturing the ship. Scheme after scheme was evolved in his busy brain to be cast aside as useless, but suddenly, two days later, an idea, a great and glorious idea, flashed into his mind. He determined to try it.

Captain Sims in his cabin was also thinking out plan after plan to regain possession of the ship, but he gave them all up in turn as hopeless, for arms or ammunition he had none, and he knew well enough that the minute an attack was made the English would be shot down with ruthless indifference.

On the morning of the third day after the capture, he realised that the anxiety and the unusual sedentary life were beginning to make him positively ill. Instead of turning out for breakfast, therefore, he remained in his bunk, and soon afterwards someone came to his cabin door, unlocked it, and announced that breakfast was ready.

“Is that you, Chivers?” he called.

“Yus, sir,” said the boy, opening the door and putting his head in.

“Look here. I’m feeling a bit seedy this mornin’. You might bring my meals in here on a tray, will you?”

“Yus, sir,” said the urchin.

Ten minutes later he returned with a well-laden tray.

“Capten, sir,” he whispered, when he had laid out his master’s breakfast.

“Hallo, sonny! What is it?” asked Sims.

The boy bent his head down until his lips were close to the captain’s ear.

“Please, sir,” he began, “’ave we any—— Yus, sir, quite a fine day!” he suddenly remarked in his ordinary voice, for his sharp ear had heard footsteps outside.

For an instant the skipper was surprised, for he could not guess the meaning of the youth’s manœuvre. Then it suddenly flashed across his mind, and he realised the boy had something important to tell him. They went on talking naturally, until the footsteps died away.

“Now, Chivers,” said Sims softly, “what is it?”

“Please, sir,” whispered the boy, “’ave we any drugs aboard?”

“Drugs? Whatever for?”

“Ter lay art them blighted foreigners, sir!” exclaimed the blood-thirsty Horatio. “Me an’ th’ stooard cooks orl their grub, an’ I thought as ’ow we cud drug it, sir!” His eyes twinkled with excitement as he unfolded his idea.

“What?” whispered the captain, seeing a ray of hope. “And then recapture the ship while they’re asleep? Is that what you mean?”

The urchin nodded, and anxiously awaited the captain’s verdict.

Horatio, in the literature of the “penny dreadful” type he was so fond of reading, had often come across cases where the villains achieved their nefarious ends by drugging their victims, and he did not see why the same scheme should not be carried out on this occasion.

Sims thought hard for a minute or two before replying. Then a pleased smile flitted across his face, and he patted the boy on the shoulder.

“Boy,” he said at last, “you’re a cunning little devil!”

Horatio blushed with pleasure.

Sims went on in a low voice: “I don’t see why your scheme shouldn’t work. D’you see that medicine chest there?” He pointed to a little teak cabinet on the bulkhead of the cabin.

Horatio said he did.

“The key’s on the hook alongside it,” said the skipper. “Open it!”

The boy fitted the key into the lock with a hand trembling with excitement.

“It’s open, sir,” he said expectantly.

“Right at the back you’ll see a—— ”

Sims hesitated a moment, for footsteps sounded outside. “You’ll see a bottle of quinine,” he concluded in his ordinary voice, for the footsteps halted before his door.

It was just as well he altered the last part of his sentence, for just at that moment the door opened and the foreign lieutenant entered.

Horatio’s face went white, and his knees knocked together with fright, but the officer saw nothing unusual in what was going on.

“Goot morning!” he said affably. “I am ver’ sorry to hear you are ill, captain. Vat is ze matter?”

“I’ve a touch of fever again,” replied the skipper, avoiding the other’s eye. “I’m just seeing if there’s any quinine in the medicine chest!” He lied bravely, but felt horribly nervous all the same.

“Vell,” replied the officer, “I ’ope you vill soon be vell. Vere is ze quinine?”

The captain’s heart nearly stopped with anxiety, for the foreigner went to the medicine chest and began examining the labels on the different bottles and phials.

Supposing he suspected? The thought was too awful.