Читать книгу The Secret of the Desert - Coutts Brisbane - Страница 3

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"SAIL lib, port bow, suh!" the look-out in the fore-crosstrees hailed the schooner's deck. "Two stick boat lib, suh!"

Captain Girvan, R.N.R., hoisted his long body fromhepths ofis deck-chair, stared ahead over the shimmering wake of the sun setting across the placid waters of the Gulf of Carpentaria, then swung himself into the main rigging.

The brown man in the foretop pointed. Girvan stared through puckered eyelids and picked a speck out of the shimmering gold.

"Tommy, pass me up my glasses!" said Girvan. "There's something queer about this craft, though I can't exactly see what."

"There's something queer about most things hereabouts!" grunted Tommy, otherwise the Honourable Thomas Quincey Paston. Seated on the deck, he was engaged on the cleaning of a couple of sporting rifles. Wiping his greasy hands, he got up, reached for the binoculars hanging inside the open door of the after-deck cabin, and swung himself up to the skipper's side.

"Here you are. What's the trouble?" he added, as Girvan, after a long stare through the glasses, whistled perplexedly.

"You've heard of the Flying Dutchman, haven't you?" growled Girvan. "Well, that's the identical craft! Take a look at her!"

"She's going at a good lick," commented Tommy. "Shoving along a good deal faster than we are. But I don't see where any Flying Dutchman business comes in, except that she's not as tidy-looking as our own little Rockabelle. Her skipper hasn't enjoyed the advantages of having footed it in the R.N."

"Tommy, your education has been neglected, or else you'd know that old Vanderdecken always sailed right into the wind's eye—which is exactly what that craft is doing."

"Auxiliary motor," replied Tommy placidly. "I'm not the complete seaman, but I'll bet that's the answer."

"Yes!" grunted Girvan impatiently. "Of course, there's an auxiliary! But why does her skipper keep canvas on her? Main and foresail and a couple of jibs, all sheeted flat as boards, by the look of 'em. And a thumping big stack of deck-house aft. And, from the way she's footing it, her auxiliary must be one of the most powerful engines ever put into a craft of her size. Hang it, Tommy, she must be all engine-room below! She's the oddest-looking craft I ever set eyes on!"

"A regular mystery ship, eh? Jimmy! Oh, Jimmy!" Tommy bawled down to a youth who had just come out of the deck-house yawning and blinking. He was Girvan's kid brother, a slighter edition of the skipper. "Come up here and give us the benefit of your opinion about a two-sticker that's showing us her heels."

"I think you fellows might have a heart!" grumbled Jimmy Girvan. "It's my watch below, and your notion of being matey is to howl like a couple of cats! Here—lemme see what it's all about!" He climbed aloft and grabbed the glasses. "Rummy! But what about it, Ned? She's slipping along a good three knots faster than the best we can make. Heading into Lambourne Inlet, too, isn't she? She couldn't dodge through the shoals under sail alone, could she?"

"No, But why keep sail on her at all, that's what I want to know? It must cut a knot or two off her speed!"

"Eccentric skipper. Keeps his canvas up to get rid of moths," said Jimmy flippantly. "But she's a rum craft, anyhow. What in thunder does she want in the inlet? There's nothing up there, eh?"

"Perhaps she's on our lay, taking another mighty buffalo hunter along. You may have company, Tommy," suggested Girvan. "Anyhow, we'll be able to have a look at her at close range. Watch, ahoy! Ready about!"

The Rockabelle came round on the other tack, a manoeuvre which brought the mystery craft on her other bow. But the distance between them was increasing momentarily, for the wind was failing. Soon the Flying Dutchman had rounded a rocky headland and was lost to view.

But Girvan's curiosity was thoroughly aroused. He ordered the Rockabelle's auxiliary motor to be started and the canvas to be taken in. Before the sun had set they had entered the mouth of the inlet, a broad, but shallow sheet of water that ran twisting about for miles between gradually converging rocky shores backed by a stretch of sand which, away to the westwards, gave place to a great belt of marshland.

At no great pace, for the deep water channel was tortuous, the Rockabelle crept inland. There was still light enough left when Captain Girvan went aloft and scanned the inlet with his glasses. Slowly he swept the placid waters that mirrored the sunset sky.

A group of pelicans was settling down for the night. The clatter of their big beaks came clearly across the water. But otherwise, so far as he could see, which was a distance of a mile or so, the inlet was empty.

"D'you see her?" called Jim Girvan from the deck.

"Not in sight. She must have gone right away up to the head, and that's hidden from here." Girvan descended. "It's very odd, Jim. What would she be doing up there? We'll find her to-morrow. I'm not going to risk going farther to-night. We'll anchor here."

Jim passed on the order, the motor stopped, and as the schooner lost way, the mudhook plunged and brought her up in five fathoms, in the middle of the channel and a quarter of a mile from the shore.

"I don't see any signs of inhabitants," said Tommy, as, the ship having been snugged down to the brothers' satisfaction, they entered the lighted cabin and sat down to their evening meal.

"There aren't any, so far as I know," replied Girvan. "A gang of blacks may wander this way occasionally, and I've heard of pearlers taking a day or two off to try for a buffalo over in the marshes where you're going to-morrow, but no one else."

"Aren't you coming along, too?" asked Tommy.

Captain Girvan shook his head. He and Paston were old friends, and when they had met again in Port Moresby, New Guinea, where Paston was engaged in some obscure business for the British Colonial Office, he had invited him to come for a cruise in the Rockabelle along the coast of Australian Northern Territory, and so to the Girvan home at Rockhampton, Queensland.

Paston, a mighty hunter in his spare moments, was anxious to bag a good specimen of the buffaloes that wander amongst the Territory marshes, hefty brutes and formidable antagonists. So the Rockabelle had put into Lambourne Inlet, where it was practically certain that Paston would quickly find what he wanted.

"I'd like to go with you," Girvan replied. "But one of us must stay aboard. Jim will go along. He has never shot anything bigger than a rabbit. And you'll take a couple of the boys. I don't think you'll have to go far."

Here Ah Sin, the Chinese cook and steward, entered with steaming dishes, and they fell to work. Tommy Paston regarded the Chinaman thoughtfully as he flitted about, serving the meal with finished dexterity.

"You're a very good cook, Ah Sin," he said approvingly. "And a very good waiter. Perhaps you have served as mess-room steward aboard a man-o'-war on the China station?"

"Servee one piecee year 'long Thlundeler, sir," replied Ah Sin. "Admilable's stleward, sir. Velly nicee genleman, Admilable Manders. But thlis person liking thlis better. Not having makee hand wagge allee time."

He swung a hand to the salute in correct man-o'-war style, smiled blandly, and trotted out.

"How long have you had him?" asked Tommy. "Cheery bloke for a Chink. More like a Japanese in his ways."

"We've had him about four months. Yes, he has a touch of the Jap in his manner. He might be one, for that matter. It isn't easy for a European to tell the difference between them. After all, they're very much the same, racially. If John Chinaman once gets inoculated with some of the Japanese energy—"

"Then Europe will have to sit up and take notice. America, too, for that part of it—and Australia very specially!"

"The Yellow Peril, eh?" said Girvan with a laugh. "Still thinking of that bogey."

"Yes." Paston lowered his voice and glanced towards the door. "It's a good deal more than a bogey. Japan is like a hive, with a swarming population which keeps on increasing at a tremendous rate. They're getting fearfully overcrowded at home, and they have no colonies worth mentioning. Here's Australia, a thundering great continent with about the population of London. Most of the country is empty. Japan is within easy striking distance. What's more natural than that she should turn envious eyes this way? Australia would be an ideal dumping ground for some of her superfluous millions."

"Country like this?" scoffed Girvan, jerking his head in the general direction of the shore. "Sand and rock and marsh! And more sand and rock inland for hundreds of miles! Rot, Tommy! At the best they'd only get it after the bitterest scrap in history. The British Empire is still a going concern, and the British Navy would have something to say on the subject. But even if they did win, which is unthinkable, it wouldn't be worth having. The Sahara or the Gobi Desert are smiling paradises compared with some of the tracts in the interior here."

"Ned Girvan, you don't jolly well know what you're talking about! My suffering friend, you should really learn a little about geology! A lot of Australia is desert, true. Why?"

"Because there's no water," put in Jim Girvan with a grin. "Q.E.D., as we used to say at school."

"Another one!" moaned Tommy. "Listen, you thick-headed chump! There's plenty of water—only, it has gone underground. Go a few hundred feet down, pump up the water you'll find there in the subterranean lakes and rivers, and the desert will blossom like a Kentish market-garden. The yellow brother knows all about that. A Japanese professor gave me a regular lecture on the subject only a few months ago. I gathered that he'd been all over Australia investigating. There was no blamed modesty about him, either. He talked about Australia being the heritage of Japan. You'd have thought he was a landlord giving a tenant notice to quit."

"Oh, there are always fellows like that," said Girvan comfortably. "It's usually due to a rush of book learning to the head—or a desire to make themselves notorious."

"I don't agree. The fellow was blatant, but he wasn't an ass. He talked quite freely about the great day when Japan, having quietly trained her hordes and China's, would take her rightful place as mistress of Asia, and then of the world. And I happen to know that he was only expressing what a great many Japanese think—men who can do a lot towards giving their notions practical expression. I see and hear a lot while I'm trotting about. In fact "—his low voice dropped to a whisper—"that's my real job. The Colonial Office..."

He got no further, for there was a patter of feet outside, a tap, and Billy Kettle, the half-caste Kanaka bos'n, or second mate, entered, a broad-shouldered giant with a singularly soft voice.

"If you please, cap'n, there's a motor boat coming down on us. No lights. She's not running right. The engine's missing, sir. You can hear her. Sounds sorter like there's something wrong."

Through the open cabin door came a faint, spluttering sound, the noise of a motor that was firing badly, but even as they listened it ceased. Captain Girvan got up.