The Airship Golden Hind
Produced by Al Haines.
Cover art]
"'THE GOLDEN HIND' RESCUES A SHIPWRECKED CREW."]
THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"
by
Percy F. Westerman
AUTHOR OF
"THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE," "THE MYSTERY SHIP," "BILLY BARCROFT OF THE R.N.A.S.," ETC., ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY FLEMING WILLIAMS
Publishers PARTRIDGE London 1920
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
THE GREAT ADVENTURE SERIES
_PERCY F. WESTERMAN:_
The Airship "Golden Hind"To the Fore with the TanksThe Secret BattleplaneWilmshurst of the Frontier Force
_ROWLAND WALKER:_
Deville McKeene: The Exploits of the Mystery AirmanBlake of the Merchant ServiceBuckle of Submarine V2Oscar Danby, V.C.
LONDON:S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO., LTD.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--A STARTLING PROPOSITION CHAPTER II--FOSTERDYKE EXPLAINS CHAPTER III--THE "GOLDEN HIND" CHAPTER IV--THE DEPARTURE CHAPTER V--FIRST AWAY CHAPTER VI--Z64 SCORES CHAPTER VII--DELAYS CHAPTER VIII--CAST ADRIFT CHAPTER IX--THE ESCAPADE OF ENRICO JAURES CHAPTER X--UNDER EXAMINATION CHAPTER XI--"WITH INTENT" CHAPTER XII--CONFIDENCES CHAPTER XIII--THE TAIL OF A CYCLONE CHAPTER XIV--THE BOAT'S CREW CHAPTER XV--REVELATIONS CHAPTER XVI--THE OBSERVATION BASKET CHAPTER XVII--A SURPRISE FOR CAPTAIN PROUT CHAPTER XVIII--UNDER FIRE CHAPTER XIX--VICTIMS OF A REVOLUTION CHAPTER XX--WIRELESS REPORTS CHAPTER XXI--VON SINZIG'S BID FOR SAFETY CHAPTER XXII--THE END OF Z64 CHAPTER XXIII--A DUMPING OPERATION CHAPTER XXIV--WITHIN SIGHT OF SUCCESS CHAPTER XXV--FIRE! CHAPTER XXVI--"WELL PLAYED, SIR!"
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The Airship "Golden Hind"
CHAPTER I--A STARTLING PROPOSITION
"What's the move?" enquired Kenneth Kenyon.
"Ask me another, old son," replied his chum, Peter Bramsdean."Fosterdyke is a cautious old stick, but he knows what's what. There'ssomething in the wind, you mark my words."
"Then you're going to see him?"
"Rather! And you too, old bean. Where's a pencil? We can't keep thetelegraph boy waiting."
Bramsdean tore a form from a pad, scribbled on it thereply--"Fosterdyke, Air Grange, near Blandford. Yes, will expect motorto-morrow morning," and he had taken the initial step of a journey thatman had never before attempted.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were both ex-flying officers of the Royal AirForce. What they did in the Great War now matters little. Sufficient isit to say that had they belonged to any belligerent nation save theirown they would have been styled "aces"; but since in the Royal Air Forcedetails of personal achievements were deprecated, and the credit givento the Force as a whole, they merely "carried on" until ordered to "getout," or, in other words, be demobilised. Then, each with ahighly-prized decoration and a gratuity of precisely the same amount asthat given to an officer who had never served anywhere save at the HotelCecil, they found themselves literally on their feet, relegated to thelimbo of civilian life. It was not long before they found how quicklytheir gratuities diminished. Like many other ex-members of HisMajesty's Forces, they began to realise that in smashing the Germanmenace they had helped to raise a menace at home--the greed and cupidityof the Profiteer.
They were just two of thousands of skilled airmen for whom as such therewas now no need. Commercial aviation had yet to be developed; trickflying and exhibition flights lead to nothing definite, and only a verysmall percentage of war-time airmen could be retained in thereconstituted Air Force.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were not men to "take it lying down." They hadpluck and resource and a determination to "get a move on," and within atwelvemonth of their demobilisation they found themselves partners andsole proprietors of a fairly prosperous road transport concern operatingover the greater part of the South of England.
But it wasn't the same thing as flying. Looking back over thosestrenuous years of active service, they remembered vividly the goodtimes they had had, while the "sticky" times were mellowed until theycould afford to laugh at those occasions when they "had the wind upbadly."
Then, with a suddenness akin to the arrival of a "whizz-bang," came atelegram from Sir Reginald Fosterdyke, asking the chums to see him onthe morrow.
Sir Reginald Fosterdyke had been Bramsdean's and Kenyon's O.C., or, toemploy service phraseology, a Wing-Commander. On his demobilisation hewent to live at Air Grange, a large old-world house standing on highground, a good five miles from Blandford. Very rarely he left hiscountry-house; his visits to town were few and far between, and hisfriends wondered at the reticence of the versatile and breezyFosterdyke. He seldom wrote to anyone. When he did, his correspondencewas brief and to the point. More frequently he telegraphed--and then hemeant business. In pre-war days Air Grange was famous for its week-endhouse parties. The shooting, one of the best in the county of Dorset,was an additional source of attraction to Fosterdyke's guests. But thewar, and afterwards, had changed all that. Few, very few, guests wereto be found at Air Grange; the staff of servants was greatly reduced,the well-kept grounds developed a state of neglect. Sir Reginald'sfriends came to the conclusion that the baronet had become "mouldy."They wondered what possessed him to live an almost hermit-likeexistence. Fosterdyke knew their curiosity, but he merely shrugged hisshoulders and "carried on." His work in the world of aviation was by nomeans ended. It might be said that it was yet a long way from attainingits zenith.
Early on the morning following the receipt of the baronet's telegram SirReginald's car pulled up in front of the premises used as theheadquarters of the Southern Roads Transport Company. Kenyon andBramsdean, having given final instructions to their work's foreman--aformer flight-sergeant R.A.F.--jumped into the car, and were soonwhisking northwards at a speed that was considerably in excess of thatfixed by the regulations.
Although of a retiring disposition, Sir Reginald Fosterdyke had made apoint of keeping in touch with his former officers. He had a sort ofpersonal interest in every one of them, and on their part they regardedhim as one of the best. Whenever, on rare occasions, Fosterdyke randown to Bournemouth he invariably looked up Bramsdean and Kenyon to talkover old times. But being invited to Air Grange was quite a differentmatter. Vaguely, the chums wondered what it might mean, conjecturingideas that somehow failed to be convincing. Yet they knew that there was"something in the wind." They knew Sir Reginald and his methods.
Through Blandford, up and past the now deserted hutments where formerlyGerman prisoners led an almost idyllic existence in their enemy'scountry, the car sped on until it gained the lofty downs in thedirection of Shaftesbury. Then, turning up a steep and narrow lane, thecar drew up at the gate of Air Grange.
It had to. There was no gate-keeper to unlock and throw open themassive iron gates. That task the chauffeur had to perform, stoppingthe car again in order to make secure the outer portals of SirReginald's demesne.
While the car remained stationary the two occupants looked in vain for aglimpse of the house. All they could see was a winding, weed-grownroad, with a thick belt of pine trees on either hand. To the left ofthe road and under the lee of the trees were half a dozen wooden huts,unmistakably of a type known as temporary military quarters. Smokeissuing from the chimneys suggested the id
ea that they were in"occupation," and a couple of dungaree-clad men carrying a length ofcopper pipe on their shoulders confirmed the fact. Somewhere frombehind the trees came the sharp rattle of a pneumatic drilling machine.
Kenyon glanced at his companion.
"What's the Old Man up to, I wonder?" he enquired. "Quite a labourcolony. Look--air flasks too, by Jove!"
A pile of rusty wrought-iron cylinders stacked on the grass by the sideof the path recalled visions of by-gone days.
"Something doing, that's evident," agreed Bramsdean. "What's the stunt,and why are we hiked into it?"
"Wait and see, old bird," replied Kenyon.
The chauffeur regained the car and slipped in the clutch. For fullanother quarter of a mile the car climbed steadily, negotiating awkwardcorners in the rutty, winding path, until, emerging from the wood, itpulled up outside the house of Fosterdyke.
No powdered footman awaited them. On the steps, clad in worn butserviceable tweeds, stood Sir Reginald Fosterdyke himself.
The baronet--generally referred to by his former officers as the OldMan--was of medium height, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested. He wasabout thirty-five years of age, with well-bronzed features, cleanshaven, and possessed a thick crop of closely-cut dark brown hair tingedwith iron grey.
He held out his left hand as Kenyon and Bramsdean ascended the stonesteps--his right hand was enveloped in surgical bandages--and greetedhis guests warmly.
"Glad to see you, boys!" he exclaimed. "It's good of you to come. Havea glass of sherry?"
He led the way to the study, rang a bell, and gave instructions to aman-servant whom Kenyon recognised as the O.C.'s batman somewhere inFrance.
Sir Reginald sat on the edge of the table and whimsically regarded hisformer subordinates. At that moment, rising above the staccato rattleof the pneumatic hammer, came the unmistakable whirr of an aerialpropeller. To Kenyon and Bramsdean it was much the same as atrumpet-call to an old war-horse.
"Sounds like old times, eh?" remarked Sir Reginald.
"Rather, sir," agreed Kenyon heartily, and, at a loss to express himselffurther, he relapsed into silence.
"Experimental work, sir?" enquired Bramsdean.
Fosterdyke nodded.
"Yes," he replied in level tones. "Experimental work, that's it.That's why I sent for you. I'm contemplating a flight round the world.Keen on having a shot at it?"