The Third Officer: A Present-day Pirate Story Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  The S.S. "Donibristle"

  To the accompaniment of a pungent whiff of hot oil, a miniaturecascade of coal dust and frozen snow, and the rasping sound of thederrick chain, the last of the cargo for No. 3 hold of the S.S._Donibristle_ bumped heavily upon the mountain of crates that almostfilled the dark confined space.

  "Guess that's the lot, boss," observed the foreman stevedore.

  "Thanks be!" ejaculated Alwyn Burgoyne, third officer of the 6200-tontramp, making a cryptic notation in the "hold-book". "Right-o; allshipshape there? All hands on deck and get those hatches secured.Look lively lads!"

  Burgoyne waited until the last of the working party had left thehold, then, clambering over a triple tier of closely-stowedpacking-cases, he grasped the coaming of the hatch and with a springgained the deck.

  "What a change from Andrew!" he soliloquized grimly, as he surveyedthe grimy, rusty iron deck and the welter of coal-dust and snowtrampled into a black slime. "All in a day's work, I suppose, andthank goodness I'm afloat."

  Three months previously Alwyn Burgoyne had been a sub-lieutenant inthe Royal Navy; hence his reference to "Andrew", as the SeniorService is frequently designated by long-suffering bluejackets. Underpeace conditions and in the knowledge that the greatest menace withwhich the British Empire was ever threatened was removed for alltime, the Admiralty were compelled to make drastic reductions both inpersonnel and material. Numbers of promising young officers, trainedfrom boyhood to the manners and customs of ships flying the WhiteEnsign, had been "sent to the beach", or, in other words, theirservices had been dispensed with. Even the sum of money paid to theseunfortunates was a sorry recompense for their blighted careers, sincecircumstances and the fact that they were of an awkward age to embarkupon another profession were a severe handicap in life's race.

  Burgoyne, however, was one of the luckier ones. Forsaking the lure ofgunnery, torpedo, and engineering, he was specializing in navigationand seamanship when the "cut" came. Without loss of time he had satfor and obtained first a Mate's and then a Master's Board of TradeCertificate, and with these qualifications, aided by a certain amountof influence, he obtained the post of Fourth Officer in the BritishColumbian and Chinese Shipping Company.

  On his first voyage in the S.S. _Donibristle_, from Vancouver toShanghai, Burgoyne gained a step in promotion. Viewed from a certainpoint it was a regrettable promotion, since Alwyn had to step into adead man's shoes. But Roberts, the Third Officer, disappeared on thehomeward run--it was a pitch-dark night, and a heavy beam sea, and noone saw him go--and Burgoyne "took on" as Third.

  To fill the vacant post, Phil Branscombe, a Devonshire lad who hadcome into the British Columbian and Chinese Shipping Company via awind-jammer and a Barry collier, was appointed as Fourth Officer, andBranscombe was now about to start on his first voyage under the B.C.& C.S.C. house-flag.

  The _Donibristle_ was lying at Vancouver. She had been bunkered withNanaimo coal; the last of her cargo--mostly Canadian ironmongery andmachinery--was under hatches, and she was due to sail at daybreak.

  "Cheerio, old thing!" exclaimed Branscombe as Burgoyne made his wayaft, his india-rubber sea-boots slithering and squelching on theslush-covered deck. "All stowed? Good, same here. How about tea?"

  As the chums made their way towards the companion, their attentionwas attracted by the arrival of three people who were on the point ofstepping off the gangway, where the First Officer stood ready toreceive them.

  One was a middle-aged gentleman of a decidedly military bearing,obvious in spite of the fact that he wore a heavy greatcoat withturned-up fur collar. Clinging to his arm--a necessary precaution inview of the slippery state of the deck--was a lady, evidently hiswife. The third member of the party, disdaining any extraneoussupport either animate or inanimate, was a girl of about nineteen ortwenty. She wore a long fur travelling coat, a close-fitting velourhat, and thick fur gloves that reached almost to her elbows. As hercollar was turned up, there was little of her profile visible, butwhat there was was enough to proclaim her to be a very good-lookinggirl.

  "Passengers, eh?" remarked Burgoyne. "Didn't know we were taking anythis trip."

  "Eyes front, old man," exclaimed Branscombe in a low tone. "Dear oldthing! Remember the path of duty----"

  "Is slippery," rejoined the Third Officer, as the Fourth, skidding onthe frozen snow in the midst of his homily, measured his length uponthe deck. "And be thankful you haven't your No. 1 rig on."

  Descending the companion, the two chums gained the alley-way out ofwhich opened the officers' cabins. Here they encountered a stout,jovial-faced man carrying a tea-tray.

  "Is there plenty of hot water on in the bathroom, steward?" askedBurgoyne. "Thanks--by the by, what names are on the passenger list?"

  "Only five, sir," replied the steward. "There's a Mr. Tarrant, a Mr.Miles, Colonel and Mrs. an' Miss Vivian, sir.... Tea's ready, sir."

  "Thanks; pour me out a cup and let it stand, please," said Alwyn, ashe hurried off to the bathroom to remove all traces of five hours'hard work in No. 3 hold.

  Twelve minutes later Burgoyne, having washed and donned his bestuniform, entered the mess-room where the officers had all their mealswith the exception of dinner. It was the custom on board ships of theBritish Columbian and Chinese Shipping Company for the officers todine with the captain and passengers in the saloon. Although the_Donibristle_ was primarily a cargo-boat, she had accommodation fortwelve passengers. These she could carry without being obliged tohave a Board of Trade passenger certificate, and since the_Donibristle_ was by no means a fast boat there was no acutecompetition to secure passenger berths.

  Most of the occupants of the mess-room--two engineers, the purser,and two deck officers--had finished tea and were "fugging" round alarge stove. Branscombe, who had forestalled his chum by two minutes,was taking huge mouthfuls of bread and jam, and drinking copiousdraughts of tea with the rapidity of a man who never knows when hewill be interrupted by the call of duty, while, in order to takeevery advantage of the brief spell of leisure, he was scanning anewspaper conveniently propped up against a huge brown earthenwareteapot.

  "Any news?" inquired Burgoyne.

  "United Services draw with Oxford University."

  "I'd liked to have seen the match," remarked the Third Officer. Itrecalled memories of a hard-played game in which Sub-LieutenantBurgoyne, R.N., was one of the United Service team. That seemed agesago, although only eight months had elapsed. "And the M.C.C.?" heinquired.

  "No match. It was raining cats and dogs in Melbourne," repliedBranscombe.

  Having heard the latest of two great events in the world of sportthat were taking place in almost diametrically opposite parts of theglobe, Burgoyne exclaimed:

  "Well, any more news? Don't be a mouldy messmate. Hand over half thatpaper--the part you've read."

  "Take this one, Burgoyne," said Withers, the Second Engineer."There's another boat missing--a week overdue. That's the second thismonth, an' both between 'Frisco and Kobe."

  "Yes, the _Alvarado_," added the purser. "Wasn't that the vessel wesighted off the Sandwich Islands, Burgoyne?"

  "Yes, I was officer of the watch," he replied.

  "Well, she's gone without a trace as far as we know," said Withers."And the _Kittiwake_ went in similar circumstances. If the _Alvarado_had sent out an S.O.S. we should have got it, I suppose. What's thedistance--ah, here's our Signor Marconi or our Mark Antony, whateveryou please. Say, young fellah-me-lad, what's our wireless radius?"

  This question was addressed to Mostyn, a tall slim youth who had justentered the mess-room. His uniform proclaimed him to be one of thewireless operators.

  "Two hundred and fifty by day; six hundred by night," replied Mostyn,who then proceeded with the characteristic fervour of a wireless manto let fly a battery of technical terms and formulae.

  "'Vast heaving, my lad," interrupted the Second Engineer, with ajovial laugh. "You've floored me. I feel like that young Canuk musthave felt when he was shown ov
er the ship last Monday."

  "What was that?" inquired the purser.

  "He showed great interest in my scrap heap," replied Withers. "Thegreatest interest. I explained every mortal thing in theengine-room--twenty-five minutes steady chin-wag. And when I'dfinished he just asked: 'And do they work by steam or gasoline?' I'vebeen off my feed ever since," he added pathetically.

  "To get back to the _Alvarado_," said the purser "It's jolly strangefor a vessel to drop out of existence nowadays and leave no trace. Wecan dismiss the mine theory. Fritz didn't try that game on in theNorth Pacific, and it's hardly likely that the mine laid by the Japsin '05 would be still barging about. Rammed a derelict? Blown up byinternal explosion? Turned turtle during a hurricane?"

  "A hurricane, perhaps," replied Burgoyne. "We had it a bit stiff justabout that time--when Robert was lost overboard."

  "Ships do vanish," continued the pessimistic purser. "Wireless andother scientific gadgets notwithstanding. I remember----"

  "Chuck it, old man!" interrupted Branscombe.

  "Don't try to give us all cold feet. It's cold enough on deck--an'it's my watch," he added dispassionately. The Fourth Officer pushedaside his cup and plate, struggled into his greatcoat, and left themess-room. It was his job to superintend the clearing up of the decksafter the cargo had been stowed, and the stevedores had taken theirdeparture.

  The rest of the mess relapsed into silence. Some were deep in theevening papers, others were reading torn and thumb-marked novels. Afew, Burgoyne amongst them, retired to the more secluded part of theroom in order to write to their relatives and friends, and send themail ashore before the _Donibristle_ got under way.

  "Any passengers?" asked Withers, breaking the prolonged silence.

  "Yes, young fellah-me-lad," replied Holmes, the purser. "Boiledshirts and stiff collars for everyone."

  "Is that the menu, Holmes?" inquired Withers with well-feignedinnocence.

  "It will be for you if you don't take care," rejoined the purserseverely. "We haven't a full passenger list, but we've got to keepour end up, even though we're not a crack liner."

  "Who are they?" asked Mostyn.

  "A Colonel Vivian and his wife and daughter," replied Holmes. "Theyare only going as far as Honolulu--dodging the Canadian winter Ishould imagine. There's a Mr. Tarrant. He's in the Consular Service,and is bound for Kobe. The last is Mr. Miles. I don't know what heis, but I rather fancy he's a drummer working for a Montreal drugstore. Anyone know if the Old Man's aboard yet?"

  "Yes, he came aboard with the Chief," replied the wireless officer,"about five minutes before I came below."

  "Why on earth didn't you say so before?" demanded Withers, making aprecipitate rush for the door. "I didn't expect Angus before eightbells, and----"

  "Evidently friend Withers has left undone those things that he oughtto have done," observed Holmes. "Get a move on, you fellows. Nothinglike punctuality for meals, 'specially when I want a run ashore afterdinner."

  Twenty minutes later officers and passengers assembled in the saloonfor dinner. Although lacking the luxurious trappings of a first-classliner's saloon, the _Donibristle's_ was quite a comfortable,well-equipped apartment. Electric lights in frosted glass bulbs withamber shades threw a warm, subdued light upon the long table. Thesnow-white table-cloth looked dainty with glittering cutlery andplate. Choice Californian flowers--bought that afternoon in Vancouverby the messman, presumably to create a good initial impression uponthe passengers--completed the display.

  At the head of the table sat Captain Roger Blair, R.N.R., a short,thick-set Tynesider, whose war record included service in the NorthSea, the AEgean, and outer patrol work on the edge of the ArcticCircle. He had been twice in collision and torpedoed on fouroccasions; yet, until the surrender of the German Fleet, he had neverset eyes on a Hun submarine. He was inclined to be irritable as aresult of the nervous strain of four and a half years inmine-infested waters under war conditions; but, in spite of beingnearly fifty-four years of age, he was accounted one of the finestand most reliable skippers in the company's service.

  On his right was Mrs. Vivian, a frail and rather subdued lady with adistinctly nervous manner. Next to her was Colonel Vivian, huge,burly, and bronzed. His features were clear cut, but a rather heavychin and a military moustache gave the casual observer an impressionthat the colonel was a severe and stern man. In point of fact he waswhen in command of a regiment, but in retirement he was jovial andgood-natured, and simply doted on his wife and daughter.

  Hilda Vivian had been placed on the Captain's left, consequentlyAlwyn Burgoyne, far down the table, saw but little of her except apartial view of an attractive profile.

  Mr. Tarrant, an aesthetic gentleman of about twenty-five or thirty,sat on Miss Vivian's left. Next to him was Miles, an undersized,white-faced individual with an unlimited amount of "push and go" asfar as his calling was concerned, and almost a complete apathytowards everything else.

  At the foot of the table was Mr. Angus, the Chief Engineer. He was,like the majority of chiefs in the Mercantile Marine, Scotch. Hisappearance, accent, and mannerisms all pointed to the undeniable factthat he hailed from the Clyde. Five feet ten in height,broad-shouldered, rugged-featured, and with sandy hair, he was boththe terror and admiration of the crowd of rapscallions who comprisedthe rank and file of the _Donibristle's_ stokeholds.

  Angus was reported to be "near". If he spent a dollar he took goodcare to get a dollar's worth in return for his outlay. He neverparted with a cent without due consideration--and lengthyconsideration at that. But in greater matters he was generous in theextreme. Whenever a subscription list came round for some worthycause--usually for the widow or dependent of one of the company'sformer servants--the scrawled initials "J. A." invariably appearedfor a substantial amount from Jock Angus's funds. If a fireman, downon his luck, was unable to provide himself with a kit suitable forthe climatic conditions and changes of the voyage, the Chief wouldstealthily interview the purser and see that the man got an outfit atthe expense of dour Jock Angus.

  And he knew his job from A to Z. Left alone with the necessary toolshe could transform a scrap heap into a set of engines and guarantee agood head of steam. He had been in charge of the _Donibristle's_engines for two years of almost constant running, and never once hadthey broken down or stopped through mechanical defects.

  Beneath the Scotsman's rugged exterior beat the heart of a kindlyman. Almost everyone on board took his troubles to Angus, knowingthat his confidence would be respected, and that the advice hereceived was blunt, sympathetic, and sound, while the relationsbetween the Old Man and the Chief ran as smoothly as the well-tunedtriple-expansion engines of the good ship _Donibristle_.

  The rest of the officers, with the exception of a few actually onduty, were seated on either side of the long table--good and true menall, typical of the great Mercantile Marine, without which theBritish Empire would crumble into the dust. Most of them have alreadybeen brought to the reader's notice; and since it is yet too early tobring upon the stage the arch-villain Ramon Porfirio and hissatellites and myrmidons, they must be temporarily detained in thewings.