DEFERRED PROMOTION
I
“Feeling merry and bright, and all that sort of thing, Raxworthy?” inquired Lieutenant-commander Maynebrace. “You don’t look the same fellow as the scarecrow we pulled out of the ditch yesterday.”
“Fresh as paint, sir,” replied the midshipman.
“Paint put over a wet substance causes blisters,” continued Buster’s Owner. “So perhaps that accounts for the bump on your figure-head being still in evidence.”
“It’s not painful, really,” Raxworthy hastened to assure his host and superior officer.
“That’s just as well, since I’m thinking of putting you on to a spot of work,” rejoined Maynebrace. “Hello, Cotterdell—let me introduce our new snottie, Raxworthy.”
The new arrival—one of Buster’s two lieutenants—nodded cheerfully across the table.
“My watch below when they picked you up yesterday,” observed Cotterdell. “You’ve had a pretty sticky time, I understand.”
It was breakfast-time in Buster’s wardroom. Raxworthy had been “kitted out” as far as the resources of the ship and the generosity of her officers permitted. He was wearing one of Sub-lieutenant Cartwright’s tropical uniforms, which bore badges of rank that the midshipman was not entitled to wear.
Somewhat diffidently he mentioned the fact to the lieutenant-commander. Maynebrace pooh-poohed the objection.
“You can’t expect that Cartwright will let you carve his suit about,” he remarked. “Besides, all ratings know your rank. You aren’t in a crack light cruiser now, young fellow, but in one of the handmaidens of the fleet. I suppose you’ll soon pass for sub-lieutenant?”
“Another twelvemonth, I expect.”
“Probably. By the bye, I wirelessed the admiral last night, requesting that you may be temporarily borne on the books of Buster. He’ll no doubt reply giving permission. It doesn’t much matter; you’re here, and here you’ll jolly well stop for at least another nine days. I suppose you are absolutely sure that there’s another pirate junk knocking around?”
“I couldn’t be absolutely sure, sir, but it sounded like it. We didn’t catch sight of her, from start to finish.”
“I hope to goodness there is another pirate at large,” confessed Maynebrace. “It will be frightfully disappointing if we’re burning oil fuel for nine days for nothing. But so far, except for your evidence, there’s nothing to prove that recent incidents of piracy in these waters are the work of more than one gang. In addition to the capture and looting of the Ah-Foo, two British steamers were stopped by a junk hoisting signals of distress, and at least three Chinese-owned tramps have been seized and pillaged. Unfortunately, the case of the Ah-Foo is the most recent, so if only one pirate junk is concerned, it looks as if our independent cruise is a wash-out.”
“The junk that captured us was in action, sir.”
“Yes; but who with? It might have been a Chinese government gunboat.”
“She’d be armed with a quick-firer. I’m quite certain there was only an exchange of rifle and machine-gun fire,” countered Raxworthy.
“By Jove! I hope you’re right,” rejoined the lieutenant-commander. “What do you think, Cotterdell?”
The officer addressed shook his head.
“Don’t know what to think. We know where these cut-throat gentry hang out when they are at home. Why doesn’t the admiral give orders for us to shell their base to blazes?”
“ ‘Cause China’s a recognized republic having a seat on the League of Nations, and consequently empowered to sit in judgment upon other countries that are infinitely better governed than she is. That’s the irony of it,” continued Maynebrace. “She’s taking no steps to repress piracy, and we can’t violate her territory even to exterminate the blighters who take to it. All we can do is to try and catch ’em napping outside territorial waters, and they’re as artful as a wagon-load of monkeys!”
It was Raxworthy’s first morning in a destroyer, and already he had come to the conclusion that it was a pleasant change from service in a light cruiser. There was less irksome and often unnecessary routine and no short-tempered commander to harry him at sundry times, simply because the Bloke had to jump on somebody—it was his idea of discipline—and midshipmen fall an easy prey.
In Buster there was no gun-room. The officers—eight all told—were a sociable, brotherly crowd in their off-duty moments in the wardroom, but terribly efficient when on watch. In spite of Maynebrace’s remark that Buster was one of the handmaidens of the fleet—a term applied to destroyers, armed drifters and other small craft—it was his aim and ambition to keep his command in such a state of high efficiency that even the most critical admiral could find no fault with her.
“I suppose I’d better let you have the customary twenty-four hours in which to sling your hammock, Raxworthy?” remarked the lieutenant-commander at the conclusion of the morning meal.
“I’d just as soon carry on, sir!”
“Very well, then; see how you like standing middle watch!”
The midshipman smiled. It was just the thing he wanted—to spend from midnight to four in the morning on the bridge of a destroyer at sea.
Just then a messenger entered the wardroom.
“Officer-of-the-watch reports a vessel in sight on our port bow, sir, steering nor’-west.”
“Very good,” replied the lieutenant-commander. “I’ll be on deck in a brace of shakes!”
II
Raxworthy followed the Owner to the upper deck and thence to the bridge, where Lieutenant Yardley and Sub-lieutenant Cartwright were levelling telescopes in the direction of a steamship about three miles off.
There was reasonable cause for their curiosity.
The vessel was steering diagonally towards the shore, where no harbour of commercial importance existed within fifty miles. She had not been challenged, yet she had hoisted the International Code signal “All’s well”—and without displaying her “number” beforehand.
She was flying the Chinese Republican ensign. On her stern was the legend Su-me —London. That, in itself, would not occasion suspicion. Ships originally British owned have frequently been sold abroad, and although their names might be altered, their port of registry remains unchanged.
“What d’ye make of her, Yardley?” demanded Buster’s lieutenant-commander.
“She’s not jonnick,” replied the second in command.
“I’m of that opinion,” agreed Maynebrace.
He then ordered the guns’ crews to close up and prepare to open fire. In addition to the quick-firers, Lewis guns were brought up and stationed at the wings of the bridge. Speed was then increased to thirty knots, which was at least double that of the craft under suspicion.
The Su-me then hoisted a three-flag signal: “Unless your communication is of great importance I beg to be excused,” and altered her course more to the west’ard.
“It’s important enough, John Chinaman,” said Maynebrace, with a cheerful grin. “Wheel fifteen degrees to port, quartermaster!”
The change of helm resulted in bringing Buster on a parallel course, and inside that of the suspect. It was Maynebrace’s intention to cut in between her and the shore and then, if she refused to stop, to fire a plugged shell across her bows.
“Look, sir!” exclaimed Raxworthy, lowering his binoculars and pointing at the fugitive. “They’re throwing someone into the ditch!”
Quickly the lieutenant-commander brought his glasses to bear in the direction the midshipman had pointed out.
He was just in time to see a man in white uniform striking the creamy foam in the Su-me’s wake.
The unfortunate individual hit the water heavily, throwing up a considerable shower of spray. He must have fallen flat, and would in consequence be badly winded.
Then, to the surprise of Buster’s officers and men, who had witnessed what seemed to have been a tragedy, a life-buoy was thrown over the Su-me’s stern by one of a group of Chinese clustered right aft. This done, they dispersed with alacrity, possibly fearing a burst of Lewis-gun and rifle fire from the “foreign devils” in pursuit.
By this time Buster was only about half a mile astern.
Through their powerful telescopes and binoculars, the observers on her bridge watched the efforts of the jettisoned man to make the buoy. He was swimming strongly, so no attempt had been made to secure his arms and legs. And why, having thrown the man overboard, did his assailants go to the length of heaving a life-buoy after him?
Obviously the Chinese didn’t want him to drown. Their object was to make the destroyer stop and pick him up and thus lose valuable time.
Equally obvious was it that Buster would have to pick the man up, whether he were a European or an Asiatic.
He had gained the buoy and was now facing the oncoming destroyer. In spite of his tanned complexion he was certainly a white man.
Maynebrace had already made up his mind what to do. Only as a last resource would he stop and lower a boat. That would waste much valuable time. Nevertheless, the whaler was manned and swung out ready to be lowered and slipped.
“Stand by there with bowlines!” he ordered, and then rang down for quarter speed ahead.
His aim was to pick the swimmer up by means of one of those looped ropes. It was a manœuvre that required skill and an iron nerve. Even at quarter speed the destroyer would be going too fast for the swimmer to retain a hold, and if one of the bowlines chanced to fall over his head the sudden jerk would break his neck. And if they missed the man he would almost certainly be caught by the suction of the starboard propeller and cut to pieces. Yet way must not be entirely taken off the ship. If it were, she would become unmanageable and drift to lee’ard of her objective.
For the present Maynebrace didn’t worry about the Su-me. His whole attention was centred upon the man in the ditch.
One thing in his favour was the fact that the sea was calm. On the other hand a calm sea is favourable to sharks. The surface might be unruffled for hours by the sinister dorsal fin of one of these ravenous brutes; but within a few minutes after they have been provided with a likely victim, the water all around would be ruffled by feathers of spray as the black triangular objects converged upon their prey.
Maynebrace realized this danger, and ordered half a dozen bluejackets possessing first-class marksmen’s badges to stand by, ready to fire should any shark appear.
Three hundred yards . . . two hundred . . . one hundred.
Clang, clang!
The engine-room telegraphs were jerked back to stop. The destroyer quivered. Her bows dropped appreciably.
“Starboard five, quartermaster!”
“Aye, aye, sir; starboard five!”
“Meet her at that, quartermaster!”
“Helm’s amidships, sir!”
“Port! . . . Steady!”
The swimmer’s head was no longer visible from the bridge, owing to the flare of the destroyer’s bows. The hands stationed along the side leant outboard, ready to heave.
“Too much way, sir!” shouted the gunner.
Again the telegraphs clanged: “ Quarter speed astern both! ” Then “ Stop! ”
A few seconds later three bluejackets hauling on a bowline, brought the rescued man inboard like a hooked salmon.
III
Reassured on that score, Maynebrace brought his attention back to the Su-me. That nasty little trick on the part of the gang who had seized her had resulted in a gain of about a mile. It didn’t want a masthead angle with a sextant to tell Maynebrace that.
Again in response to orders from the bridge the destroyer leapt forward, lifting her bows and throwing up a huge bow wave.
At all costs Buster must head off her quarry before she gained the safety of territorial waters; although her lieutenant-commander vowed he’d get her even if she piled herself up on the beach, even if he were “smashed” for it!
Then another white-uniformed man was hurled from the Su-me’s poop; while to act as a human screen against the destroyer’s fire, four more were dragged aft by their yellow captors and lashed to the taffrail.
Maynebrace muttered something under his breath. Here was a disturbing factor in the situation. He’d have to slow down to pick up the second man; he couldn’t cripple the fugitive ship, and she was more than holding her own in the chase.
“Why not lower the whaler, sir,” suggested Cotterdell. “We can pick him up when we’ve scuppered those johnnies.”
The lieutenant-commander was used to making quick decisions and his judgment was rarely at fault. He couldn’t very well send away any of his officers. Each had his duties to perform should the destroyer be in action; but there was the supernumerary, Midshipman Kenneth Raxworthy.
Giving crisp helm orders to the quartermaster, Maynebrace again rang down for reduced speed.
“Mr. Raxworthy!”
“Sir!”
“You will take away the whaler and pick up survivors from yonder vessel. Follow in our wake as well as you can and we’ll return and pick you up as soon as possible.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
The midshipman skipped down the bridge ladder and ran aft where, in obedience to the trill of the bo’sun’s mate’s pipe, the whaler’s crew had fallen in.
The boat had already been swung out. The crew took their places, Raxworthy by virtue of his rank being the last to step aboard.
The ropes ran through the blocks as the lowerers paid out the falls. Three feet from the surface the lowerers belayed, waiting for the destroyer to slow down.
“Slip!” ordered the midshipman.
The whaler struck the water with a hearty slap. A touch of the helm threw her clear of the destroyer’s quarter. Buster immediately increased speed, leaving her boat bobbing and pitching in her wake.
“Oars, lads! . . . Give way!”
He had to stand up in the stern-sheets and shade his eyes in order to keep the ditched men under observation.
The destroyer raced past him, and for some moments the man was hidden in the turmoil of her bow wave.
The men gave way with a will, pulling with long, swinging strokes that sent the lean whaler through the water in fine style.
“Way ‘nough! In bow!”
In a trice willing hands hauled the second victim from the sea.
He was a young man in the twenties. His face was partly hidden by several days’ growth of beard; his saturated drill uniform was rent in many places. The knuckles of his left hand were raw.
He was passed aft and deposited upon the grating in the stern-sheets.
Raxworthy ordered the men to resume their oars and steered in the direction Buster and her quarry had taken.
“Been in a rough house, haven’t you?” he inquired of the man coiled up at his feet.
“Rather!”
“I can sympathize with you,” continued Raxworthy. “I’ve had some. How did they get you?”
“I’m the third officer of the S.S. Supreme.”
“ Supreme? Artful swine! They cut out the three middle letters and left a Chink name: Su-me. Well, go on.”
“We were bound from London to Yokohama,” continued the third officer. “Native crew, but I don’t think they are in league with the pirates. It wasn’t in my watch, but the second afterwards told me that a junk sent out distress signals. Our Old Man slowed down. The junk had an engine, and directly we’d lost way she ran alongside and poured a hundred or so of armed Chinamen on our deck——”
“Hang on a bit,” interrupted Raxworthy, who during the recital had been watching the pseudo Su-me through his binoculars. “They’ve slung someone else into the ditch. . . . By Jove! He’s splashing like blue blazes! Must be a shark about. Make a good spurt, my lads!”
They had to pull the best part of a mile before they got to the third man. Raxworthy’s surmise was correct. There were sharks in close proximity, swimming in gradually closing spirals around the spot, for the man’s splashings were becoming less active.
“Keep it up!” shouted the midshipman.
He caught a glimpse of the swimmer’s wide open eyes and the horrified expression on his face.
Raxworthy drew his revolver. It was a tricky business firing the weapon. The jerky motion of the whaler and the fact that he had to stand up and fire well over the heads of the men made it even hazardous. He purposely fired wide, the bullet ricochetting a good twenty feet clear of the man.
It saved the situation—or rather the loud report did—for it checked the onrush of the enormous shark that had turned on its back in order to seize its prey.
Then, carrying way up to the last moment, the boat ran close to the swimmer. Again willing hands hauled the third would-be victim into safety—but with what a narrow margin!
Even as the rescued man flopped across the gunwale, a shark rasped under the keel and lifted one of the oars out of the rowlock.
“Hello, Greig!” exclaimed the Supreme’s third officer.
But Greig, the tramp’s wireless operator, made no reply. He had fainted.
“How many of you are left on board?” asked Raxworthy.
“Seven Britishers—at least there were ten of us when the ship was taken,” replied the third officer. “They’ve kept the engineers below; promised all sorts of nasty things if they didn’t keep the old hooker going. But, if I know anything of Old McKie—he’s the chief—he’ll scupper the engines directly he knows that there’s a warship on their track.”
The whaler held on, following the rapidly receding destroyer and the Supreme. Although Raxworthy kept a sharp look out for signals from the latter announcing that yet another captive had been thrown overboard, Buster made no announcement. Nevertheless the midshipman repeatedly swept the intervening stretch of water with his binoculars in case the pirates had jettisoned another of their prisoners, who in the excitement of the chase might have escaped the notice of the destroyer’s crew.
Both vessels were almost hull-down when Raxworthy heard the muffled boom of a gun, quickly followed by another.
Gone were his chances of smelling powder. Buster was in action and he was miles astern in the whaler. It was disappointing, but there was no small measure of compensation in the fact that he was engaged in saving life.
All that could be done for the present was to jog on—there wasn’t the slightest chance of the whaler being upon the scene before the scrap ended—and wait for the destroyer to return to pick her up.
IV
Meanwhile Buster was hard at it, and not having things all her own way.
Opening out—for Maynebrace did not want to expose his crew to unnecessary risks from rifle fire— Buster drew level with the captured tramp. She was between the Supreme and the shore, two thousand yards separating the two craft.
Finding that their savage ruse of dropping the British prisoners overboard was not now deterring the destroyer, the pirates removed the survivors and ranged them along the side nearest their attacker, lashing the captives to the rail at sufficient intervals, so that wherever a shell took effect on the upper deck the helpless men would suffer.
All this Lieutenant-commander Maynebrace saw through his binoculars. There was his chance. He took it.
“Range two, double o, o. Hull her fore and aft!” he ordered through the voice-tube communicating with the bow four-inch quick-firer.
The gun-layer of this particular weapon was an artist at his job; and so was the sight-setter. It was mainly on that account that Buster headed the list in the quarterly gunnery returns.
The pirates had opened an ineffectual rifle fire. The destroyer was out of range, although ricochets occasionally mushroomed themselves harmlessly against her side.
The four-inch barked once—twice.
The first shell burst under the tramp’s counter. The second blew part of her stem away.
Again Maynebrace signalled, calling upon the pirates to surrender. It was a mere waste of time. They hadn’t the faintest intention of giving in. If they couldn’t escape they’d fight until the ship sank under them.
The tramp was slowing down. Her engines had stopped—probably the British engineers had a lot to do with that—and she was slowly swinging round to starboard. Her steering-gear had been shattered by the shell that had exploded under her counter. She was like a crippled wild cat, harmless at a short distance yet dangerous to close with.
But for the prisoners, Maynebrace would have soon settled the business. A few rounds of gas shells and the pirates would quickly be rendered harmless. He could neither use gas nor sweep the decks with machine-gun fire. The only solution appeared to be that of laying the destroyer alongside and carrying the ship by boarding, but that would entail heavy loss of life on the part of the ship’s company.
“We’ve winged her, Yardley,” observed the skipper. “What now?”
The lieutenant shook his head.
“I hardly know, sir.”
“Neither do I,” confessed Maynebrace.
“We could put her down.”
“With most of her former officers and crew either triced up on the upper deck or under hatches—that won’t do,” objected the lieutenant-commander. Then, a thought striking him, he inquired: “Is the whaler in sight?”
“Dead astern, sir; about two miles off.”
“H’m. Look here, Yardley, I’m going to put the wind up these Chinks badly.”
“Good egg, sir! How, might I ask?”
“Ask Cotterdell and the sub to come here; then I’ll explain. It’s going to be a ticklish business and if I, or any of us, get knocked out, the others must carry on as long as there’s a man left on the upper deck. There must be no bungling. I’m going straight for the Supreme at full speed. So will you ask the others to come this way?”
Lieutenant Yardley positively gaped.
His superior officer’s declaration left him speechless. Maynebrace was going to ram! But with what results? Buster would probably cut the tramp completely in two and concertina her own bows in the process. As likely as not, she’d strip the blades from her propellers, through fouling wreckage. The Supreme would sink like a stone and then the British captives tied to her rails would go down with her.
“The Owner must be as mad as a March hare,” thought Yardley. “If he carries this stunt out and doesn’t have the luck to stop a bullet, he’ll be court-martialled and sent on the beach!”
V
“ Buster’s made our number, sir!” reported the coxswain of the whaler.
“Our recall?” asked Raxworthy.
“They’re semaphoring us, sir.”
The petty officer, balancing himself on the stern bench, held a pair of hand-flags in the “acknowledgment” position.
From the destroyer’s bridge a signalman was sending out a message:
“Captain to whaler. Lay off and wait till we close with you. Keep outside range of rifle fire.”
“Acknowledge!” ordered the midshipman briefly; then, “Lay on your oars, lads!”
The whaler was now about a mile dead astern of the destroyer, and half as much again from the Supreme —near enough for the midshipman to see what was taking place by means of his binoculars, and yet beyond the range of a rifle.
He felt rather squashed over the signalled order. Why couldn’t Captain Maynebrace recall the whaler and give her a chance of taking an active part in the scrap? It seemed to him, too, that the sooner he got the two rescued Mercantile Marine officers on board, the better, for both were showing obvious signs of distress after the harrowing time through which they had passed.
All hands were now watching Buster and the tramp. The former was moving slowly on a course at right angles to the Supreme, which was now at a standstill and blowing off steam. Except for a few rounds from her quick-firers at the beginning of the scrap, the destroyer had remained silent, ignoring the furious and ineffectual rifle fire from the captured British tramp.
Raxworthy, too, realized that so far the position was a stalemate. The pirates would not surrender; and although Buster could have sunk the ship either by torpedo or gun-fire, the reason for his restraint was obvious. It was his duty to recapture the Supreme, so that she could be handed back to her lawful owners, and it was certainly not her commanding officer’s intention to sacrifice deliberately the lives of the prisoners in an attempt to regain possession of the pirates’ prize.
Even as Raxworthy looked, the destroyer turned fifteen points to starboard, and, rapidly increasing speed, bore down upon the stationary tramp.
The “bone in her teeth” assumed great proportions as Buster’s speed increased. Through his glasses, Raxworthy saw that except for the Owner and two seamen on the bridge, no one was visible on the destroyer’s deck. The guns’ crews were lying in a prone position, and probably everyone else on board was doing the same.
“By Jove! It’s ‘prepare to ram!’ ” he exclaimed.
“Seems like it, sir,” added the coxswain. “Gosh! There’ll be a most unholy smash. The old girl’ll cut through the tramp like going through a bit of cardboard.”
The rifle fire from Supreme increased. It was now at almost point-blank range; but curiously enough most of the bullets flew high over the bridge, cutting chips from the mast and signal yards.
That could only be accounted for by the fact that the pirates had been firing with sights raised to extreme elevation, and that in the excitement they had forgotten to put them down.
Excitement gave place to panic when the Chinese realized that Buster was about to ram. They had been quite prepared to die fighting to the last, but not to be crushed to a pulp by the terrific impact.
Almost with one accord the terror-stricken pirates threw down their arms and jumped overboard, without even waiting to carry out their amiable intention of cutting the throats of the “foreign devils”, who were still lashed to the staunchion rail.
Many of the pirates were unable to swim. None of their comrades offered to help them. Their fate came swiftly and comparatively mercifully. Those who could swim struck out as hard as they could, to put as great a distance as possible between them and the tramp, which they expected to see go down in a few seconds. Not that the Chinese who kept themselves afloat entertained any hopes of saving themselves or expected the British bluejackets to save them. The distance to the nearest land was too far for any but the strongest and most determined swimmers. Besides, there were sharks about.
Raxworthy, too, waited for what he thought was to be the inevitable and appalling impact. The destroyer had now worked up to at least thirty-five knots.
Then suddenly she swung round hard to port, listing outwards until the midshipman had a clear view of her upper deck. He could see some incautious bluejackets, who had been lying motionless, slither down the inclined deck until they brought up against some friendly projection.
At the same time Buster’s engines stopped and then commenced to go full astern.
Still turning, she came almost to a standstill within an oar’s length of the Supreme. Grappling irons were thrown, and the two craft brought alongside each other, and in a trice thirty armed bluejackets, led by Cotterdell and Sub-lieutenant Cartwright, swarmed across to the tramp’s upper deck.
Not a shot was fired. There was no need. Not a single pirate remained.
Quickly the British prisoners were cut adrift. The Chinese flag was struck and the Red Duster rehoisted in its place.
Then Maynebrace, who had received a bullet through the fleshy part of his left arm—he considered it a light price to pay for a most successful operation—went aboard the Supreme and received the thanks and congratulations of her skipper.
“That’s all right,” rejoined Maynebrace modestly. “Part of our job, you know. I suppose you’ll be able to carry on without further assistance?”
“I expect so,” replied the Old Man. “We’re one officer and the wireless operator short. The swine threw them overboard——”
“They’re in our whaler,” interrupted the Lieutenant-commander, pointing to the boat, now only a quarter of a mile away, for her recall had been hoisted and Raxworthy was urging his crew to “give way and pull like blue blazes”.
The skipper of the Supreme was overjoyed.
“We’ll be all shipshape and Bristol-fashion in a brace of shakes,” he declared; “and if you fall in with a yellow junk with a broad green band and her eyes ringed with red, just please give her my compliments and anything you like to make the blighters sit up. I reckon she carries eighty well-armed cut-throats, and they are as artful as a wagon-load of monkeys.”
“Thanks, a nod is as good as a wink,” rejoined Maynebrace. “A most useful tip of yours, Captain. We’re going to look for her at once.”
VI
The whaler returned to the destroyer and was hoisted in. Raxworthy made his report and handed over the two men he had saved. They were taken below to the wardroom, given a glass of sherry apiece, and then returned to their ship.
A quarter of an hour later, sufficient steam having again been raised to get the engines going, the Supreme stood off on a nor’-nor’-easterly course and Buster nosed off in the opposite direction to see if her luck was again in.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if that junk is the one that sunk the one that captured the Ah-Foo, sir,” observed Raxworthy.
“You don’t know; you told me you never had a glimpse of her,” rejoined Maynebrace. “All the same, I hope you’re right.”
They cruised inshore, but just outside territorial waters for the rest of the day and through the ensuing night. When the brief tropic dawn broke, a sail was sighted away to the east’ard—or rather the three mat square sails of a large junk.
Buster closed to within a mile. She was certainly a yellow-hulled craft, but without the broad green stripe. Sure enough, however, the “eyes”, without which no Chinese junk would venture out to sea, were surrounded by vermilion rings.
“I’ve been out Chinaside for two commissions and have never before seen a red-eyed junk,” commented Maynebrace. “She may have painted out the green band. Eighty cut-throats and machine-guns aboard. Regular floating hornets’ nest!”
The junk sailed serenely on. A few men were on deck, and they appeared to evince no interest in the inquisitive destroyer.
Buster fired a blank charge and hoisted an International signal ordering her to heave-to.
The junk was in no hurry to reply. Maynebrace gave them time, and visualized the crafty pirates poring over the signal book.
When she did reply she hoisted a yellow flag over one with two yellow and two black squares.
“QL, sir,” reported the yeoman of signals. “Reports she’s infected.”
“Does she?” remarked Maynebrace drily. “We’ll prescribe for her; give her something to rid her of plague! She’ll have to show her tongue first, though!”
Buster altered course and closed her distance. When still a good half mile away the pirates could no longer resist the inclination to display their war-like character.
A fierce burst of machine-gun fire was directed against the destroyer. It plastered the gun-shields of the for’ard quick-firer, and would have struck down any of the crew who had incautiously remained in view. A few feet higher, and the traversing hail of bullets would have swept the bridge.
Maynebrace was no longer in doubt. He was loath to employ high explosive shells; not that he had any wish to spare the pirates, but because he wanted the junk badly!
He ordered the Lewis-guns to open fire in order to beat down the hail of hostile bullets, and then shouted through the voice-tube for the bow gun to try two rounds of gas shells.
Both projectiles got home, the actual impact making two jagged holes in the junk’s upper-works; but the liberation of the gas did the trick very neatly.
The gas used in the British Navy, differs considerably from that employed by the enemy with such hideous results during the Great War. Even the shells do not explode and send fragments of metal hurtling in all directions with terrific force. Unless a man is in the direct path of the projectile he is unharmed by it. The gas, when liberated on this occasion, expanded, but rose only a few feet above the source of liberation. Being heavier than air it found its way down ‘tween decks, its effect upon living creatures being to render them unconscious within a few seconds. The period of insensibility varies from about five minutes to three hours, and on recovery the victim feels no ill-effect, beyond a headache.
The machine-gun fire from the junk wavered and then ceased.
The destroyer’s officers, who had providentially escaped the hail of bullets, waited developments, scanning the junk through their binoculars.
Raxworthy tried to follow their example, but found his hands shaking so much that he could not steady his glasses. He had had his wish and had been under fire. He was hardly conscious of it at the time, but now that the ordeal was over it left him shaking and trying his level best to hide the fact.
Lieutenant Yardley, however, noticed the midshipman’s knees shaking.
“Pull yourself together, Raxworthy,” he said quietly. “Most of us are like that for the first time under fire. It’s soon over.”
“I’m not a funk, sir,” protested the midshipman.
“ ‘Course not; only the excitement gets into your limbs. Nip aft and see if any of the boats have been hit. We’ll be wanting them very soon.”
Raxworthy descended the bridge-ladder. By the time he reached the upper deck his knees were no longer shaking.
There were several neatly drilled bullet holes in the two whalers, but the hands were already busy at plugging them. The lieutenant had dispatched Raxworthy on an unnecessary errand, but that had not been his intention. It had given the latter the chance to obtain a grip on himself. It had worked. Raxworthy was now calm and self-possessed. His baptism of fire was over.
VII
“Away boats’ crews! Man and out boats!”
The order brought Raxworthy up all standing. He wanted to be one of the boarding party, and wondered whether he ought. The lieutenant-commander had sent him in charge of the whaler during the pursuit of the Supreme. Did that order still hold good?
Sub-lieutenant Cartwright hurried past him.
“You’re taking the second whaler, Rax!” sung out the sub over his shoulder. “Better bring a broom with you to sweep the flies into the dust-pan.”
The significance of Cartwright’s remark was lost for the present. It would be plain later. Raxworthy, his doubts removed by Cartwright’s implied order, soon found himself in the stern-sheets of the whaler and urging his crew to “give way”.
It was a procession of boats. Lieutenant Cotterdell, being in command of the boarding parties, led the way, followed by Cartwright in the first whaler, and Raxworthy in the tail of the procession.
Had the boats been under fire they would have suffered heavily through being in line ahead, but the pirates were no longer in a position to offer resistance, so Cotterdell could afford to let his men row easily and thus leave them comparatively fresh when it came to swarming up the lofty sides of the yellow junk.
They boarded—Cotterdell and Cartwright’s boats running alongside to port, while Raxworthy made fast amidships on the starboard side.
A strange sight met the midshipman’s gaze as he clambered over the wide bulwark. He understood now the sub’s reference to flies. The pirates were lying about on deck in all sorts of curious attitudes. One man, for instance, was holding his rifle with the butt against his shoulder and his wide open right eye glancing along the sights. He had toppled sideways, his hands rigidly gripping the still loaded weapon.
Most of the Chinese had been instantaneously affected by the gas. A few, however, had attempted either to run below or to dive overboard.
“Why didn’t we use the gas shells to recapture the Supreme?” asked Cartwright.
“Because, although it’s supposed to be safe as regards the after effects, we aren’t sure about it,” replied the lieutenant. “It would be a fine thing if we had used it and then knocked out or permanently disabled her officers. It’s given us the opportunity to observe the effects upon these blighters. If they’d fallen into the hands of their own government they’d soon lose their heads. As it is, I suppose they’ll be tried in the Consular Court, if they do recover. . . . Raxworthy!”
“Sir?”
“Take some hands with you and have a look round the hold. See it’s all clear. We’ll have to lower these blighters and keep them under hatches, but I don’t want any of them to break their necks down there.”
Followed by his coxswain and an A.B., the midshipman descended a ladder to the main deck, whence another ladder gave access to the main hold.
He proceeded cautiously, revolver in hand, and sniffed suspiciously in case any gas was lurking below.
“Something burning, coxswain?” he asked.
“Smells like it, sir.”
Raxworthy went a few steps farther for’ard. In the half light he nearly stumbled across the body of a Chinaman. The pirate’s cotton clothing had been smouldering, but as he fell he had stifled the fire.
Curious to know what had caused the man’s clothes to catch fire, Raxworthy turned him over. Tightly grasped in the pirate’s right hand was a tinder-box.
“He’d gone below to have three draws and a spit on the quiet, the skulking lubber, when the gas got him, sir,” opined the coxswain.
The midshipman was not satisfied with the explanation. The pirate didn’t appear to have an opium pipe in his possession. Besides, the smoke was increasing.
Raxworthy continued his investigations. On the other side of a bulkhead he saw something that made his heart miss a beat.
He was in the junk’s ammunition room. There were several barrels, one with its head knocked off. Along the floor was a fuse—a primitive affair of teased rope soaked in saltpetre and then dried. It was spluttering. The feeble sparks were within six inches of a suspicious-looking heap of black dust that had been piled up against the opened barrel.
The Chinaman he had just examined must have had time to light the fuse before being overcome by the gas. This could be explained by the fact that the fumes took several seconds to sink through the open hatchways to the space ‘tween decks.
Deliberately the midshipman knelt down and gripped the burning fuse between his finger and thumb. The spluttering sparks burnt his hands, yet he dare not relax his grasp. Nor could he risk jerking the fuse clear, since the heap of powder would be scattered and some of the grains come in contact with the burning end.
Not until he had backed for a distance of two or three yards did he drop the fuse and stamp upon it.
“Well done, sir, if I may say so,” exclaimed the petty officer. “You’ve saved us from being blown sky-high.”
“We shouldn’t have known much about it,” rejoined the midshipman grimly. “Carry on.”
They carried on, making a thorough examination of the hold, which contained a fair amount of stuff that had obviously been looted from merchant ships.
Then Raxworthy returned on deck and reported the attempt on the part of the pirate to blow up the junk rather than surrender.
“Nice-mannered gentlemen, aren’t they?” commented Lieutenant Cotterdell. “I’ve been told that they generally keep one or two barrels of black gunpowder against such emergencies. All right, Raxworthy; we’ll have the stuff ditched in case of accidents.”
Not until the barrels of powder were carefully whipped on deck and thrown overboard did the work of lowering the unconscious pirates into the hold begin. Each Chinaman was searched and deprived of his arms before being placed in his temporary prison below the water-line.
Meanwhile others of the boarding party had lowered the cumbersome mat sails and were making preparations for being taken in tow.
The destroyer then ran alongside, since the sea was calm.
Cotterdell made his report, laying stress upon Raxworthy’s gallantry and resource in preventing the destruction of the junk and the loss of a large proportion of Buster’s ship’s company.
“Did he, by Jove?” exclaimed Maynebrace. “It’s lucky for some of us that we hiked him out of the ditch. Where is he?”
“Securing hatches, sir.”
“Ask him to come on deck, please.”
When Raxworthy, blinking in the strong sunlight, came up from below his temporary commanding officer shook him by the hand.
“Well done!” declared Maynebrace heartily. “Look here; have you any experience in sail other than in Service boats?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the midshipman.
“Of course,” continued the lieutenant-commander. “Didn’t you navigate a felucca across the Levant with only a long-haired chum to assist you?”
Raxworthy assented. He would have liked to point out that the lower-deck term hardly applied, since his companion on that occasion had bobbed hair.
“Very well, then,” continued Maynebrace. “I’m putting you in command of the prize, with six ratings to assist you. We’ll tow you within fifty miles or so of Hong Kong, and then you can take her into harbour. How will that suit?”
The midshipman’s eyes glistened.
“It’s awfully decent of you, sir,” was all that he could say. But it meant a lot more.
VIII
The destroyer sheered off, rehoisted her boats, and proceeded to take the captured junk in tow.
Raxworthy was in his element—in charge of the prize. It was a responsible task. Under hatches were between eighty and a hundred lawless ruffians who would soon be recovering from the effects of the gas. Although they had been deprived of their arms they were desperate men and likely to cause trouble.
The midshipman decided to take no unnecessary risks. He stationed a couple of armed bluejackets at the battened-down hatchway and placed a gas cylinder handy, ready to release another charge into the hold in case of trouble. The two sentries were equipped with gas-masks, as were the rest of the crew—just in case the vapour spread in the wrong direction.
Maynebrace was as good as his word—and better. He towed the junk to within thirty miles of Hong Kong, wirelessed the admiral that the prize was on her way and requested that a tug—or a destroyer—should be detailed to assist her into port, and then cast off the towing hawser and proceeded northward “in execution of previous orders”.
On board the junk sail was made, and before a steady northerly breeze she slipped along at a good five knots.
Hourly the sentries were relieved. They had nothing to report concerning the prisoners.
“Long time coming round, aren’t they?” remarked Raxworthy to the coxswain.
“Seems like it, sir,” replied the petty officer. “So much the better; saves us a lot of trouble.”
At length the prize reached Hong Kong. A strong guard composed of police and marines arrived to remove the pirates and take them to prison.
The hatches were removed, revealing the captives lying motionless.
“Take care!” cautioned Raxworthy. “They’re lying doggo!”
A police inspector, taking his life in his hands, descended into the hold.
“Dead as mutton!” he announced.
The midshipman was aghast. It seemed as if the gas was far more effective than had been claimed, or the hold had proved another Black Hole of Calcutta! If so, he was “for it”. There would be a tremendous outcry in certain sections of the press, especially the native journals, concerning the inhumanity of the British to Chinese prisoners—even though the prisoners were pirates of the deepest dye!
But a further examination of the bodies revealed the fact that the pirates, rather than stand their trial, had strangled themselves with strips of their clothing.
“Saved us a lot of trouble,” commented the police inspector. “There’ll be an inquest, of course, but you’ve nothing to fear, Mr. Raxworthy.”
Shortly afterwards, having handed over his prize, Raxworthy returned on board the light cruiser Kirkham and reported for duty.
“Back again, then, Mr. Raxworthy,” commented the commander, who was in high good humour, for had not the midshipman brought no small amount of honour to the ship by his bravery and resource.
“Yes, sir.”
“The admiral has sent a signal asking you to dinner with him to-night. By the bye, I didn’t know that you were promoted to sub-lieutenant.”
“I’m not, sir,” explained the midshipman. “This is a borrowed uniform—the only one available.”
“H’m! I suppose after this you’ll get your promotion. You deserve it. How about your temporary appointment to Sandgrub?”
“She’s well up the Yang-tse by this time, isn’t she, sir?”
The Bloke shook his head and smiled.
“She’s not, it happens. She’s detained at Shanghai through engine defects. Still keen?”
“Rather, sir.”
“Yes; but it was a midshipman they wanted, not a sub-lieutenant. The admiral emphasized that fact.”
Raxworthy thought for a while. There was something about that trip up the Yang-tse in Sandgrub that appealed to him. Another chance of gaining distinction, he felt sure. He was bound to be promoted to sub-lieutenant sooner or later, but there mightn’t be a second chance of serving in a river gunboat.
“Couldn’t I have my promotion deferred a bit, sir?” he asked earnestly.
The commander smiled again.
“Don’t see why not,” he replied. “I can appreciate your motives. Why not ask the admiral when you’re dining with him?”
And Raxworthy did. His luck was in. For a little while longer he would be Midshipman Kenneth Raxworthy, R.N.