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.
“No, son, don’t think so,” answered the fisherman. “Fush is bitin’ so well that I think we’d best put the lines out at sundown, an’ stay out all night. We’ll up anchor an’ go back home to-morrow marnin’.”
Tom was not at all averse to the idea, for he had often undergone a similar experience, and really, in spite of their narrowness, the lockers in the cabin of the cutter were quite comfortable to sleep upon. He rather liked the idea of cooking his own supper, too, and he was so accustomed to the sea that the gentle rolling of the little ship did not disturb him in the slightest.
The wind had been lulling all through the afternoon, and towards sunset it died away completely. Soon afterwards the sun sank to rest in a blaze of yellow and orange which predicted a breezy day for the morrow, while the sea presented a glassy shining surface only disturbed by a gentle swell rolling in from the south-westward. Overhead, in the darkening blue of the sky, scattered bunches of mares’ tails hung motionless in the still air, and sitting in the stern sucking at his pipe, instinctively swaying his body in rhythm to the gentle movement of the boat, Marsh looked up at them.
“There’s a fair capful o’ wind about yet,” he remarked pensively. “That yaller on the ’orizon an’ them mares’ tails shows this calm won’t last.”
“Will it blow harder than it did to-day, Dad?” asked the boy.
“No,” returned the fisherman, shaking his head. “’Bout the same, I reckon. Son,” he added, “ye’d best get th’ night lines laid now, afore it’s dark. They’re ready in th’ tub forrard.”
The boy clambered into the dinghy made fast astern, and sculled off to do the job. Twenty minutes saw the lines laid, and when Tom returned he found his father had prepared their supper. After finishing the meal they hoisted the light on the forestay, and then, as darkness had fallen, retired to the cabin and were soon stretched out on the lockers in the little den. No sounds broke the stillness of the night except the gentle lapping of the water against the side. The cutter rolled a little on the swell, but the movement did not disturb the slumber of her weary inmates, and ten minutes later, tired out after their day’s work, they were both fast asleep.
There was no such thing as a clock or watch on board the Speedwell—timepieces in those days were expensive luxuries; but Marsh, like most seamen, could wake himself at any hour he wanted to, and at four o’clock the next morning he was on deck. The first gleams of daylight were just appearing through a heavy mist which overhung the surface of the water, but true to his prophecy of the night before the breeze had again risen, and was gaining strength every minute.
“Rouse out, Tom!” he shouted, going to the hatch leading to the cabin where the boy was still fast asleep. “Come up and give us a hand to get th’ mains’l on her. When we’ve done that we’ll get th’ lines in, an’ start off home!”
“Coming, Dad!” answered the sleepy Tom, rolling off his narrow locker and feeling about for his sea-boots, the only portion of his attire he had discarded on turning in. Within a couple of minutes he had joined his father above, and after some trouble, for it was still very dark, they had hoisted the mainsail, which flapped in the ever-freshening breeze.
“Come on, son,” said Marsh, when this operation was finished. “We’d best weigh th’ lines now.”
He went aft to haul in the dinghy, but hardly had he taken a couple of paces when Tom stopped dead. “Ssh!” he whispered, pointing out in the mist on the port quarter.
“What ails ’e, son?” asked his father in a low undertone.
“Ssh!” hissed the lad, cocking his ear. “I heered somethin’ over there.”
“What wus it?” asked Marsh.
The answer was not long in coming, for hardly were the words out of his mouth when the unmistakable creaking of blocks and the sound of conversation broke the stillness of the morning.
They looked intently in the direction from which the noises came, but so far nothing could be seen, but every instant the light was getting stronger, and the mist was gradually dispersing as the breeze freshened. The voices came nearer and nearer, and then the fisherman suddenly felt his heart leap into his mouth.
“Tom, they’re Frenchies!” he gasped. “Hark to their chatterin’! They’ll have heard this mains’l o’ our’n slattin’ in th’ wind!”
“What ’ud we best do, Dad?” queried the boy nervously, for he had never seen an enemy at close quarters, and did not exactly relish the idea of meeting one.
“Go down to th’ cabin, son,” ordered the father, “an’ get th’ axe. We’ll have to cut the cable!”
“What about th’ lines?”
“Let ’em go,” said the man in an undertone, gazing anxiously through the murk. “Go below an’ fetch th’ axe. Doan’t ’e make any noise, now!”
The boy did as he was told, and creeping down the ladder soon reappeared with the weapon, which he handed to his father.
“Look ’e here, lad,” whispered Marsh. “Take th’ helm. I’m going forrard to cut th’ cable. We’ll get th’ fores’l up after.”
Louder and louder became the sounds, and then a dark blurred shape began to slide out of the mist. It was approaching fast, whatever it was, and creeping forward the fisherman stood ready in the bows with his axe poised.
Tom jammed the tiller over, and as the Speedwell’s bows began to pay off, his father brought the broad-bladed weapon down on the taut cable with a crunch which completely severed it.
But it was too late, for they had been seen, and before the little craft had gathered way the blurred outline of the mast astern had resolved itself into the shape of one of the dreaded luggers, and at the same instant a loud shout rang out from her direction. Marsh, having freed the cutter, jumped to the fore halliards and hoisted the foresail, and then clambered aft into the stern.
“She must ha’ seen us!” he remarked breathlessly, noticing that the lugger had altered her course slightly.
“Must have,” replied Tom, feeling very anxious. “How fur off is she?”
“Not more’n a hundred yards,” said his father. “I doan’t think she’s comin’ up, though,” he added.
The Speedwell, with her mainsail and foresail set, was apparently holding her own, for the shadow behind her did not become more distinct. Presently she was dashing along with her lee gunwale perilously near the water’s edge, but the lugger did not seem to be gaining, and for a moment Marsh thought he still had a chance of escaping.
Presently they ran out of the fog bank into clear daylight, for the sun had now risen, but looking astern they soon saw the bowsprit and then the black hull and three tanned lugsails of the chasse-marée following dead in their wake.
“I’m afeerd we’re collared this time, Tom!” exclaimed Marsh, as he watched the lugger dashing along with the spray smoking over her weather gunwale. “Yon’s a faster craft than our’n!”
He was right, for now the stranger was undoubtedly closing, and a few seconds later a ruffianly-looking individual, clad in a blue jersey and a long red cap, clambered forward on board the lugger and shouted something in his own language. His words could not be heard on account of the wind, but there was no mistaking his gestures. He was telling the Speedwell to heave to, or to take the consequences.
“Heave to be jiggered!” exclaimed Marsh indignantly, shaking his fist at his pursuer. “I’m not a-goin’ to pipe down to a set o’ pirates like that! Look e’ here, son, we must get th’ tops’l on her, it’ll give us a bit more speed. Lord knows we’ll want it,” he added, with an apprehensive glance astern.
No sooner said than done, and after a certain amount of difficulty, for the breeze was fresh, they succeeded in getting the gaff topsail above the mainsail. Feeling the extra canvas the cutter leapt through the water faster than before, but they had lost ground during the manœuvre, and the Frenchman was now barely fifty yards astern.
It could now be seen that she carried four small guns each side, while crowded on her decks were over thirty armed men. Several of them were clustered in the bows, and the morning sun could be seen glinting on the barrels of muskets, and before long another man rose to his feet and hailed, in broken English this time, for the Speedwell to heave to and surrender.
Marsh shook his fist in reply, but hardly had he done so when a ragged volley of musketry broke out from the lugger. Some of the bullets came perilously close, while one scored a long weal in the wood of the bulwark close to which Tom was standing. He ducked involuntarily, a thing which many a brave man has done the first time he has been under fire.
“Lie down flat on th’ deck, me son,” said his father, with a smile on his weather-beaten face. “There ain’t no call for ye to get exposin’ yerself.”
“All right, Dad,” said the boy. “But can’t we do anythin’ to go a bit faster? She’s gainin’ on us!”
“I dunno,” answered Marsh. “P’raps if we cut away th’ boat astern it’ll help us along a bit. Get th’ axe an’ cut her adrift!”
Tom cut the dinghy free, and as she was floating astern another volley rang out from the lugger. This time the muskets had been better aimed, for the bullets hummed through the air closer to the cutter’s deck, but still no damage was done.
“I wish we had a musket or two to fire on th’ swabs!” growled Marsh.
But his wish was useless, for beyond the axe the cutter had no weapons of any kind on board, and all the time the chasse-marée drew closer and closer. It was lucky she could not use her guns, for a discharge from them would have blown the Englishman out of the water; but even as it was, affairs were bad enough, for the lugger’s crew had opened up an independent fire, and the range was so short that the flying missiles were coming closer and closer every second.
They lay flat on the deck, where they were protected to some extent by the low bulwarks; but though pursuer and pursued were both travelling fast, the lugger was coming up hand over fist. Presently she was no more than twenty yards astern, and as a sudden gust heeled the Speedwell over Marsh rose to his knees to get a better purchase on the tiller. The moment he did so more shots came from the lugger, and to Tom’s horror he suddenly saw his father relinquish his hold on the helm and clap a hand to his left shoulder.
“Dad! Dad!” he cried. “Have they hit ye?”
“Yes, th’ frog-eatin’ pirates!” groaned the fisherman, with the blood trickling down his arm. “Lucky ’tis only through th’ shoulder. Take th’ tiller, son,” he added, grinding his teeth in pain.
Tom, crouching low, steered the boat as best he could while sheltering himself from the flying bullets. He could do nothing to help his father, who had sunk to the deck more or less unconscious from the pain of his wound, for he had his work cut out in keeping the cutter on a steady course. But all the time the chasse-marée was drawing closer, and at last, glancing astern, the boy saw her short bowsprit barely ten yards off the Speedwell’s quarter.
For a moment his heart failed him, for the lugger was sailing close to the wind and evidently intended to run up on the cutter’s weather quarter and then board, for several red-capped ruffians, armed with cutlasses and pistols, were standing by her foremast, ready to jump the moment the vessels touched.
Tom glanced at his father, undecided what to do, but then he was suddenly struck by a brilliant idea, and putting all his weight on the tiller jammed it hard down. The Speedwell’s head flew round into the wind with a rattling of ropes and a slapping of canvas, but though the wrench when the heavy boom came over nearly carried away the mast, the rigging held, and leaving the boat to steer herself for a minute, the boy jumped forward to secure the fore sheet. Muskets and pistols were fired at him, but he accomplished it in safety, and clambering aft again took his place at the helm.
Putting about a cutter-rigged craft like the Speedwell was an easy manœuvre enough, but with the lugger, who had to lower and dip her three lugsails every time she tacked it was by no means so simple. The Frenchmen, moreover, were not expecting Tom’s jibe, and dashed on, with her crew yelling with mad excitement.
Though the Speedwell was now heading out to sea with her stern pointing at the lugger’s broadside, the guns of the latter were not fired. Probably they were not loaded, and lucky it was that they were not.
Soon the boy heard the shouts and the slatting of canvas as the chasse-marée went about, but by the time she was in pursuit again the handy little cutter had gained at least two hundred yards. Tom’s course, however, was now carrying him out into the English Channel, while the Isle of Wight, still shrouded in a pall of mist, was somewhere away on his port quarter. He determined, nevertheless, to wait until his pursuer should be close before attempting to go about again.
Presently the fisherman, noticing a change in the movement, opened his eyes and looked up.
“What have ye done, lad?” he asked feebly.
Tom explained.
“Good lad!” exclaimed his father. “If ye keep on goin’ about every time she comes alongside o’ us, p’raps we’ll weather her arter all. How fur astarn is she now?”
“’Bout two hundred yards,” said the boy, with a glance over his shoulder.
The lugger, however, was still gaining, and within twenty minutes was close astern again. As before, she approached on the cutter’s weather quarter, her men standing by ready to board, while occasional musket shots whistled over Tom’s head.
Nearer and nearer she came, until Marsh, thinking his son was waiting too long, raised himself on his uninjured arm.
“Now’s yer time, son!” he shouted, seeing the chasse-marée’s bowsprit getting nearer and nearer. “I’ll take the tiller, jump forrard an’ stan’ by th’ fore sheet.”
He reached out his uninjured hand and jammed the helm hard down, and once more the Speedwell came up head to wind with her canvas flapping in the breeze. The lugger’s bowsprit was perilously close, almost overlapping the cutter’s quarter, but Tom, who was just about to dash forward to readjust the fore sheet, was suddenly seized with a brilliant inspiration. He seized the axe and made a wild slash at the lashing securing the lugger’s jib to the end of her bowsprit, now within easy reach. It was done on the spur of the moment, but his eye was sure, and the keen edge of his weapon bit through the tough rope.
The Frenchmen were instantly thrown into utter confusion. The jib, no longer stayed forward, flew aft in a cloud of canvas and precipitated two red-capped Frenchmen into the water, while the man at the helm, seeing his companions struggling in the sea, relinquished his hold on the wheel, and endeavoured to save them. The lugger promptly came up into the wind with her sails thrashing against her masts; the air became blue with “Sacrés!” and wild shouts of rage, and in spite of his danger Tom could not help chuckling. It was fully ten minutes before order was restored on board the foreigner, and by the time she had repaired her damage, picked up her men, and was once more in chase of her nimble quarry, the latter was over a mile ahead.
About half a mile beyond the Speedwell was a bank of low-lying fog, and Tom was looking at it and wondering whether or not it would hide him from his pursuer, when he heard the sullen boom of a gun from the southward. At first he could see nothing to account for it, but presently
he noticed the dim shape of a large ship emerging out of a pall of mist about two miles away to port.
The lugger had seen the stranger, for she had altered her course and was flying off to seaward. The big ship gradually sailed into view, and once in the sunlight the boy saw from her towering canvas and black and yellow chequered sides that she was a man-of-war.
“We’re saved!” he yelled excitedly, as a puff of smoke left the ship’s side, and a round shot splashed into the water midway between her and the chasse-marée.
“What’s that, son?” queried Marsh, sitting up. “What did yer sing out?”
“There’s a big ship firing at the Frenchie!” repeated the boy delightedly.
The fisherman looked over the gunwale.
“Snakes!” he exclaimed an instant later. “Yon’s th’ Amazon. See the White Ensun at her peak!”
The frigate fired again, but once more the shot pitched short, and from the way the lugger was winging seaward it seemed that she was travelling faster than the man-of-war, and that she would make good her escape after all.
“Set yer royals! Set yer royals!” muttered Marsh, seeing that the frigate was under top-gallant sails. “You won’t catch her else! Ah!” he exclaimed an instant later, when, as if in answer to his suggestion, three clouds of canvas descended simultaneously on the man-of-war’s masts. “That’s better, capten!”
The light sails were sheeted home and hoisted, but even with their assistance the frigate was no match for her nimble quarry.
“There she goes again!” sang out Tom, as another tongue of red flame and a cloud of white smoke leapt out from the man-of-war’s side. “Hurrah!” he yelled, waving his hat in his excitement. “That’s done it!”
It had, for the foremast of the chasse-marée had suddenly toppled overboard with its sail. It was a lucky shot, for the range was great, but the thirty-two pound ball had shorn off the mast close to the deck, and had effectually stopped the lugger’s progress, though she still strove to escape with the sails on her fore and main masts.
“Won’t do, me son,” murmured the fisherman, looking at her. “Yer copped all right!”
He was perfectly correct, for the Amazon was now sailing two feet to her one, and ten minutes later had hove to close alongside the Frenchman. They saw the smoke of a volley of musketry; but it was the enemy’s last effort, for a minute or two later the tricolour fluttered down from her peak. She had surrendered.
The Speedwell still held on her course for Bembridge, and when the frigate had transferred her prisoners she took her crippled prize in tow, and steered up towards Spithead. She came booming along at a great speed, far faster than the cutter, and half an hour later the two vessels were close alongside.
Tom took off his hat and cheered as she passed; an answering yell came back from the man-of-war’s men, and shortly afterwards an officer with a speaking trumpet jumped up on to the white hammock cloths and stood balancing himself with one arm hooked round a backstay.
“Cutter, ahoy!” he bellowed.
Tom waved his hand in reply.
“We’ve captured the Trois Sœurs of Saint Malo. Eight guns and forty men. She very nearly had you! D’you want any help?”
“Tell ’em no,” growled Marsh; “this prick o’ mine can wait till we get back home.”
“No, sir,” shouted the boy.
“Right!” came back the answer. “What’s the name of the cutter and her owner?”
“The Speedwell of Bembridge, sir,” replied Tom. “John Marsh, owner!”
“Right! Good-bye! Glad to have been able to help you!” The frigate drove ahead out of earshot, and the figure in blue and gold leapt down on deck.
A couple of hours later the Speedwell arrived at Bembridge, and the little town, as may well be imagined, was thrown into a state of frantic excitement when the story of her narrow escape became public property.
Tom became a sort of public hero, and one day about a fortnight later, when his father was convalescent, for the bullet had broken no bones, they were once more at work in the cutter moored up alongside the jetty.
“What did I tell ’e, John Marsh?” said the well-known voice of old Wiles from above. “Didn’t I tell ’e as ’ow th’ Frenchies was cruisin’ around?”
“Aye, feyther,” replied the fisherman, busy putting patches in the sails through which the French bullets had driven holes. “But we wusn’t copped, all th’ same!”
“It wurn’t none o’ yer fault, then,” retorted the old gentleman. “If it ’adn’t bin fur that son o’ yourn ye’d a’ tasted t’inside of a French gaol. I knows!” he concluded, wagging his head wisely.
“Never mind, feyther,” laughed John Marsh. “We wusn’t copped, an’ Tom did save th’ Speedwell. Didn’t ’e, son?” he added, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Tom merely blushed and felt a fool.
IX
THE LUCK OF THE TAVY
It was a dirty night; there was no possible mistake about that, and Sub-Lieutenant Patrick Munro, R.N., of H.M. T.B.D. Tavy, crouching for shelter behind the canvas weather screens on the bridge, felt supremely miserable.
For one thing, he was rather seasick, for the destroyer, well out in mid-Channel, was punching her way westward in the teeth of a rapidly rising south-westerly gale. No sailor likes a gale; those in destroyers hate them.
The sea was big, and every now and then as the Tavy plunged her nose into the heart of an advancing wave, masses of solid water came pouring over the forecastle and sheets of spray went flying high over the bridge.
The night was very dark and the sky overcast. The wind cut like a knife, and in spite of his oilskins, sou’-wester, sea-boots, and a profusion of woollen mufflers, the sub was nearly wet through and chilled to the very marrow.
He was keeping the middle watch—midnight till 4 a.m., and now, at 1.30, he had still another two and a half hours before he would be relieved by the gunner and could retire to the warm bunk in his cabin.
Even then it seemed doubtful if he would get any sleep, for the Tavy rolled and pitched abominably. Moreover, at odd moments she had a playful habit of throwing her stern high into the air on top of a wave and of shaking it like a dog’s tail. It was disconcerting, to say the least of it.
The destroyer was by herself, and not a solitary gleam of light was in sight anywhere. Somewhere over the horizon to the northward lay the south coast of England; but as it was war time all shore lights had long since been extinguished. They afforded too good a guide to hostile submarines.
The war had been in progress for well over eighteen months at the time of which we write, and neither the Tavy nor her sub-lieutenant had seen a shot fired in anger. They had come across plenty of mines, floating and otherwise, and on one occasion had seen a merchant ship blown up and sunk and had rescued her crew.
Once they had sighted a Zeppelin, miles away on the horizon until it looked like an overgrown, animated sausage; while many, many times they had been sent to sea to assist in “strafing” hostile submarines. But they had never “strafed” any, had never fired a gun or a torpedo in real earnest; whereat the hearts of all the officers and men had grown sick, and they envied those of their comrades who had been lucky enough to be in action in the Dardanelles or North Sea.
The weather had grown steadily worse as the night wore on. They had been steaming twenty knots to start with, but on account of the sea, had had to ease down first to fifteen, and then to twelve, lest the masses of heavy water coming over the bows should strain the ship and carry things away.
The lieutenant in command, Travers, was vainly endeavouring to get a little sleep on the cushioned locker in the charthouse underneath the bridge. He had been on deck till 12.30 a.m., and his last orders to Munro were to the effect that he was to be called at four o’clock or if any lights were sighted.
The time wore on, and towards two o’clock, as the sub was beginning to feel a little better and was wondering whether he were bold enough to manage some cocoa from his vacuum flask, he heard the signalman on watch utter a sudden exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I thought I saw a flash o’ some kind on the ’orizon a little on the port bow, sir!” the man replied excitedly, peering in the direction named.
“What sort of flash?”
“It looked like a gun, sir.”
They both gazed anxiously out over the water, dodging the sheets of spray as they came flying over the bows, but not a thing was visible.
“If it had been a gun,” the sub pointed out at last, “surely we should have heard it? The place where you thought you saw the flash is almost dead to wind’ard.”
“I don’t rightly know, sir,” the signalman answered. “Maybe we’d not hear it if it was a small gun.”
Hardly had he spoken when a sharp spurt of ruby flame broke out from the darkness right ahead. It was unmistakably the flash of a gun, apparently about five miles away, and the sub strained his ears for the report. He heard nothing except the wash of the breaking seas.
But an instant later the fiery trail of a rocket cleft the air in exactly the same spot. It rose in a curve, and finally burst in a shower of stars which seemed to illuminate the sea for miles round.
The glare died away, but not before he had caught a fleeting glimpse of the dark shape of a vessel. She carried no lights of any kind, so far as he could see, and what sort of craft she was he could not determine. But she was a ship of some kind, he could swear to that.
“Signalman, go and tell the captain!” he ordered excitedly. “Messenger, warn the guns’ crews to stand by!”
The two men departed on their respective errands.
Travers was on the bridge in less than five seconds, and when the sub had told him what he had seen he went to the engine-room telegraph and increased the revolutions of the engines to fifteen knots.
“I’ll shove her on at fifteen,” he remarked. “Can’t go more than that in this sea. By the way, how far off did you say she was?”
“About five miles, sir,” the sub and signalman said together.
“Right,” nodded the skipper. “In twenty minutes we should be up to her, whoever she is. Sub, have the men warned, and get the guns and torpedo tubes manned. I don’t expect for an instant she’s anything but an innocent tramp, but we’d better be ready. These Huns are up to all sorts of dodges, foul and otherwise.”