Читать книгу The Golden Rock - Glanville Ernest - Страница 15

Torpedo boats! Two insignificant smudges of black, lifting and bowing like a couple of dingy sea-birds in a waste of waters, wretched little things that could be stowed away on the promenade deck of a mail steamer, and yet the appearance of one of them among a fleet of heavy ironclads would create as much consternation as a gadfly among a mob of cattle.

On came these mosquitoes of the navy, with nothing to distinguish one from the other but a white number on the black funnel, and the honest merchant seamen on the bridge of the Swift almost shuddered at the sight, recognising in them the incarnation of stealth and mischief. The torpedo-catcher, however, abated nothing of her speed. Was she not, after all, built to destroy these venomous midgets of the ocean? They were her game, and a brawny-armed seaman growled out his opinion of the relative fighting values of the crafts.

“Sink the little brutes,” he said, shooting a squirt of tobacco juice; “run over ’em, blow ’em up, send them to—”

His deep voice swelled from a murmur to a shout, and a melancholy seaman at the wheel nodded his head vigorously in hearty approval.

The first officer winked at Frank and pushed his big oilskin cap over his head.

“What an almighty smash there would be if the Captain gave the word. We’d sink the torpedo boats and the cruiser would sink us.”

Frank began tugging at his small moustache as the unreasoning fighting impulse seized hold of him. He forgot that his own countrymen were the objects of his increasing animosity. Underneath his feet he felt the quiver of the deck as the long vessel darted along, and the speed affected him with the same exaltation that boils through the blood of a cavalry-man when his horse has got into the desperate swing of the charge.

“Clear the gun for action,” shouted the Captain; and Webster, at the order, sprang over the bridge to the deck. Four men were at his side, the tarpaulin flew off, and the long black gun emerged.

Frank drew closer to the young lady. “Won’t you come below?” he said.

She did not hear, and he touched her with his hand.

She turned her eyes on him, magnificent and wild.

“Had you not better come below?”

She shook off his hand with an impatient gesture.

The long gun was already charged, and Webster stood by whistling, his hand ready to touch her off.

“Send the shot over that boat on the port side. Make it a close call, and she’ll shear off.”

Webster climbed up on the butt of his gun, took a long glance over the grey waters at the black funnel that alone showed, and without troubling himself about the reckonings for range finding, ventured an opinion:

“Is she a mile?”

“About that, sir,” growled the big Quartermaster, Black Henderson.

Webster jumped down, and, with a smile on his face, fired the gun.

There was a deafening report, which shivered the glass in the chart-room, and when they drove through the smoke, and steadied themselves after the shock, they caught faintly the scream of the shell, and saw it stream high above the black boat.

“That’ll scare the life out of them,” growled a sailor, with a chuckle.

He forgot that there were men after his own metal on board, and the little boat paid not the least attention to the warning.

A little patch of red instead streamed out from her bare pole of a mast, the meteor flag of Old England, which no British seaman can see without a glow of pride, and a look of consternation came into their faces.

They had forgotten about the cruiser steaming in their wake, showing nothing now but its white fighting deck, surmounted by two huge funnels; but she kept a watchful eye on the swift catcher, and at the audacious act of hostility had bristled with anger. Two small bow chasers projecting from the bulge in her bows spoke together, and a sharp reminder in the shape of a nine-pounder went screaming over the low craft, to plunge in the sea a cable’s length ahead, while the second, in a sort of devil’s “duck-and-drake” hops, sped away.

Captain Pardoe turned swiftly, and shook his fist at the cruiser.

Miss Laura had ducked her head at the vicious scream of one shot, and started aside at the angry splash and wild screech of the other, then stood trembling from head to foot while she bit her lip in vexation at her weakness.

Captain Pardoe noted her emotion, and swallowing his own rage, said gruffly:

“Shall we give in, mam?”

“No,” she said; “take no notice of me, please. Keep right on, Captain. Even if we are hit, our machinery may escape injury. You know what there is at stake, and if—if I am—if anything happens to me, promise me you will do your best.”

For answer Captain Pardoe took her hand, and raised it to his lips.

“Now,” said he gruffly, “you must go below.”

“I cannot; you must not ask me; you are endangering your lives for me, and I must be with you.”

“Mr Hume, please take this lady to the saloon; and hark you, sir,” he added in a whisper, “lock her in.”

Frank looked at the young lady in dismay, and she, betwixt surprise at the order and indignation at the intended affront, stood silent.

“Do you hear me, sir?”

There was a dull report from the stern, and again there came that nerve-shaking scream.

Frank seized the lady in his arms, lifted her up, and staggered towards the steps.

“Put me down,” she gasped.

At the steps he put her down, and, with tears of mortification in her eyes, she soundly boxed his ears, then went down the steps to the deck, and into the saloon, while he stood with a curious feeling that what he had done bound her to him.

“What’s the matter with your cheek?” said Webster, coming up; “seems to be redder on one side than the other. There, now, don’t get angry. Lord love you, I’d sooner face that cruiser than attempt to carry the Commodore; but I thank you for it, my son. The sight of her up here put my heart in my mouth. Are you going to run ’em down, sir, or blow ’em up?”

The Captain had his glass to his eye again, and held it there for some time, slowly sweeping the sea.

“Neither, Mr Webster,” he said finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, “I am going to steam at half-speed.”

He signalled to the engine-room.

“Hoist the distress signal, Mr Webster, that’ll serve the purpose.”

“Do I understand, Captain Pardee, that you intend to give this vessel up?”

“Understand what you like, my lad, but do what I order.”

The ship had got a tremendous way on, but she perceptibly slackened speed, and the sailors, noticing this, got together in a group, directing surly glances at the bridge.

Webster folded his arms, and faced the Captain.

“Do you mean to surrender this ship, Captain Pardoe?”

“And if I do so intend, what then?”

“Why, then, I’ll take command.”

“The devil!” said the Captain, making a step forward, grasping his long glass as a cudgel. A moment they faced each other; then a grim smile hovered about the Captain’s thin lips. “You’re a queer fellow, Jim, and a mutinous one; and I don’t know why I should waste words over you. Take this glass and look over that boat on the starboard.”

Webster, with a keen glance at his captain, did as he was told.

“Well, what do you see?”

“I see a mast with cross-trees.”

“Can you see the hull or rigging below the yards?”

“No, sir, there’s a layer of fog.”

“Ah, now, bend the flag on.”

Webster took another look at the Captain, then bent the Union Jack reversed to the peak.

They looked at the cruiser, and she at once signalled the torpedo boats, which simultaneously turned almost in their own lengths, and one on each bow, steamed a quarter of a mile in advance.

The cruiser came on hand over hand, and Captain Pardee’s glance turned repeatedly from her to the grey belt ahead.

He touched the bell, and the catcher responded with slightly increased speed, which soon brought her within hail of the torpedo boats.

An officer on the port boat, clad from head to foot in oils, all glistening with wet, leant over the bridge, and through his hollowed hands called, “Slacken speed, sir!”

“All right; what’s the fuss about?”

“Slacken speed!”

“So I am.”

There came a hail from the starboard boat.

“Make away, Number 4; the cruiser will settle this matter.”

The cruiser was signalling again, and the torpedo boats began to shear off.

Captain Pardoe measured the distance to the fog, and called on the engineer for full speed; and before the torpedo boats had got well out of reach of the cruiser’s guns, had she then opened fire, the Swift darted by them. When she was out of the range of their torpedoes, had they resolved to fire, he gave one of them his wash, placing it between him and the cruiser, and thus attaining his object, which was to stop the cruiser’s fire until he could make a dash for the shelter of the fog.

This feat was greeted with a ringing shout from the crew, and the men shot admiring glances at the Captain.