Читать книгу The Pirate Submarine - Percy F. Westerman - Страница 6

ON the following day, Mr. Chamfer, the Admiralty inspector, arrived.

He was a short, slim-built man with a totally disproportionate sense of his own importance. Thirty years of Civil Service life had got him into a rut. It mattered little how he performed his duties as long as he did them somehow; a monthly visit to the cashier's office at Devonport Dockyard to draw his salary was an assured thing. At the end of every year his salary was subject to a fixed increase. Whether he earned it or not, whether he possessed higher or lower qualifications than his confrères mattered not at all—the annual "rise" came with unfailing certainty. Mr. Chamfer was a firm believer in the principle of following the line of least resistance, namely, to get through his perfunctory duties with the minimum of trouble. Provided he was treated with due deference to his position by the principals of the various shipbreaking firms with whom he had to deal, the former had no cause to complain of irritating demands on the part of the Admiralty inspector.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Trevorrick!" he exclaimed. "Fine morning. Business going strong, I hope? Let me see: R 81 arrived here this week. Started on her yet?"

"No, sir," replied Trevorrick, with his tongue in his cheek. "We're engaging ten additional hands for that job. Next time you pay us a visit you'll find that there's not very much left of her."

"And R 67?" inquired Mr. Chamfer, consulting an official form.

"She's practically demolished," was the reply. "Do you wish to make an inspection?"

The inspector gave a quick glance out of the office window. Eighty yards away lay the object under discussion, the gaunt skeleton of a mammoth, the steel ribs of which were being attacked by a swarm of workmen, who gave the onlooker the impression that they were Lilliputians clambering over Gulliver's recumbent form.

"No, thanks; I won't trouble you," he hastened to reply, as he scribbled, "R 81—work in hand; R 67 practically demolished," in column six of the official document. "Well, since you suggest it, I will—just a nip. And soda, please. Well, Mr. Trevorrick, your good health and success to your work."

Two minutes later, Mr. Chamfer's car was tearing along the Tregony Road on its way back to Devonport. It would be three months at least before the official repeated the visit, and much was to happen at Polkyll Creek before those three months were up.

"Fancy, that little worm draws as much pay as a full-blown captain!" remarked Trevorrick to his partner. "You and I have to keep blighters of that sort. Well thank goodness that's over. We'll have the men up now."

The yard-bell uttered its warning notes. Although it wanted half an hour to "knock-off time," the thirty employees of the firm of Trevorrick, Pengelly & Co., promptly left their work and trooped up to the office, wondering whether the bell had been rung in mistake or whether something of an unusual nature was on the boards. There had been rumours, originating goodness only knows where, that the works might have to close down, and that prospect, with winter only a few weeks off, was a dismal one.

They trooped into the large office and found Mr. Trevorrick looking cheerful and self-possessed, with Mr. Pengelly, with a frown on his face, toying nervously with a paper-knife.

Trevorrick wasted no time in preliminaries.

"Men!" he began. "Present-day conditions of the metal market have forced us to make preparations for the closing-down of the works. If there were any indications of a recovery during the next three or four months we would hold on. Unfortunately, there are none."

He paused, rapidly scanning the features of the dejected men. There was no doubt about their being downcast. He realised that figuratively he held them in the hollow of his hand.

"However," he continued, "there is no reason why the amicable relations between us as employers and employees should not be maintained; but, let me hasten to remind you that amicable relations won't fill empty stomachs. Mr. Pengelly and myself are anxious to put our sincerity to a practical test. It rests with you whether you decide to take advantage of our offer.

"Before going deeper into the matter, I can assure you of a constant job, paid for at the same rates that you are receiving at present with the addition of a bonus, which might be anything up to a couple of hundred pounds, at the termination of the first year's work. It may entail discomfort, it is of a hazardous nature, although with due precautions there is no danger that cannot be avoided. There is one stipulation I must make—each and every man must be under the strictest pledge of secrecy."

He paused again. The men shuffled uneasily. Several at the back of the room whispered hoarsely to each other.

"Is the job straight and above-board, sir?" inquired an anxious voice.

Trevorrick looked straight at the speaker.

"Naturally," he replied.

His tone carried conviction. Had he said more in reply, the men might have "smelt a rat."

"Very good, sir; I'm in it," announced the cautious one. Others joined in accepting the decidedly indefinite offer.

"Any one not wishing to sign on can go," exclaimed Trevorrick. "I won't blame him for refusing a job about which he knows nothing, but there are other people's interests to be safeguarded. What! All agreed? Excellent! Now, Mr. Pengelly, will you please read out the declaration and obtain every man's signature, please?"

The document binding each employee to secrecy was cleverly worded, concluding with the affirmative that each man admitted his liability to be summarily dismissed for insufficiency of work, bad workmanship, insubordination, turbulence, inebriety or other offence or misconduct contrary to the rules and regulations of the Posidon Salvage Company.

"There you are, men," exclaimed Trevorrick, after the last signature had been obtained. "You now know what is the nature of the work—salvage. I will briefly relate the history of the Posidon. Ten or twelve years ago—in 1916, to be exact—the Posidon, bound from Quebec for the United Kingdom with a cargo consisting mainly of copper and silver ingots, was torpedoed by a Hun submarine when about six miles S.S.W. of the Lizard.

"An attempt was made to beach her on Looe Bar, but she turned turtle and sank in fifteen fathoms. After the Armistice attempts were made to salve the cargo. Divers went down, found the wreck lying over on her beam ends. There were a few bars of copper found, but of silver not a solitary ingot. The explosion of the torpedo had blown away one side of the strong-room. That discovery brought the salvage work to an abrupt termination.

"Now then. This is where we come in. From a most trustworthy source, I found out what actually did happen to the ingots. The Posidon turned turtle and sank, but between the two operations there was an interval. She drifted bottom-upwards for perhaps half an hour. In that position the weight of the copper burst open the hatches and nearly the whole lot was strewn on the bed of the sea. The silver, too, fell through the blown-in face of the strong-room. Consequently, when the ship did make her final plunge, she was two hundred yards away from the spot where she had dumped her precious cargo. Is that clear?"

A murmur of assent came from the interested listeners. Tales of sunken treasure waiting to be picked up from a veritable Tom Tiddler's ground appeal to most people; and Trevorrick's breezy, convincing manner did not fail to impress the simple-minded audience.

"You know it's there, sir?" inquired one of the employees, an ex-seaman diver.

"Certainly, Hunt," replied Trevorrick. "I've seen it. I cannot produce better proof than that?"

"Any difficulties, sir, in the way of other people being on the same lay?" asked another.

"The Admiralty, by whom the vessel was chartered, have abandoned her; the underwriters have settled up and written her off as a bad debt, although it may be possible that they might want to chip in. That's why we must conduct our operations in secret. It's all aboveboard, you'll understand. I wouldn't defraud any one. I have taken counsel's opinion and have been informed that we have a moral, legal and every other jolly old right to stick to what we can find. But we must guard ourselves against others who may try to jump our claim.

"How? I will tell you. As you know, the Admiralty inspector has just been here. I took the opportunity to sound him, and he assured me that there would be no objection on his part against our employing R 81 as a salvage craft. Being fitted with airlocks, enabling a diver to leave and enter at will, she is an ideal proposition for the job. The only difficulty is getting her in and out of Falmouth Harbour. Officious busy-bodies might write to the Admiralty asking why she was being employed instead of being broken up. I mentioned this to Mr. Chamfer. He was most sympathetic and hinted—hinted, mind you —that if R 81 could be sufficiently disguised, there ought to be no further difficulty. That, with your co-operation, I propose to do."

The men's enthusiasm was rapidly rising. Pengelly gave a glance of admiration at his partner. There was no doubt about it: Trevorrick held them in the palm of his hand.

"There's no time to be lost," continued the promoter. "We'll start this afternoon.... Carry on, men. Barnard and Marchant, will you remain, please?"

The workmen hurried gleefully out of the office, leaving the two foremen with whom the principals conferred over certain details in connection with the fitting out of the submarine.

At length Barnard and Marchant were dismissed, and Trevorrick and Pengelly found themselves alone.

"Well?" queried the former abruptly. "What do you think of the yarn I've just been pitching? That got 'em, didn't it?"

Pengelly nodded.

"So far, I admit," he replied. "But——"

"Go on, man; get it off your chest," prompted the senior partner, now in high good humour.

"S'posing we get R 81 under way. How do you propose to switch over from salvaging to piracy? That'll take some doing."

"Possibly," admitted Trevorrick. "But I'll do it. You wait and see. By the bye," he continued, abruptly changing the subject. "What was that yarn you were telling me about Chamfer?—Something about him coming into a pot of money."

"Yes, lucky bounder," replied Pengelly enviously. "Some misguided relative of his shuffled off this mortal coil about two years ago and left him thirty thousand pounds."

"Hanged if I'd stop in the Admiralty service with that little lot," remarked Trevorrick. "Even though he's got a soft billet. I'd blow the lot in a couple of years. 'Easy come, easy go' is my motto."

"He's evidently of a different nature," said Pengelly. "But why do you ask?"

"Nothing much," was the response. "Look here, Pengelly, we'll have to throw dust in the eyes of the shareholders. Can we run to another five per cent.?"

"It will cut into our capital."

"It'll have to," decided Trevorrick. "We'll declare a half-yearly dividend. On the strength of that we might apply for extra capital. And another thing: you'd better run across to Penzance within the next few days and sound your pal, Port—What's his name?"

"Porthoustoc—Silas Porthoustoc."

"That's the fellow. We'll want him and his lugger. He's sound, isn't he?"

"Do anything," replied Pengelly. "If he were put to it, he'd be a second King o' Prussia.[1] Nod's as good as a wink to him—at his price."

"I wouldn't let him know too much," suggested Trevorrick. "At least, not at first. Once I get him in my power sufficiently, I can put a half-nelson over him in double-quick time. Then he daren't open his mouth—price or no price."

Pengelly eyed his companion dubiously.

"You're not going to try that game on me, I hope?" he asked.

Trevorrick brought his huge hand heavily down on his partner's shoulder.

"Come now," he exclaimed. "You know the saying, 'Honour amongst thieves?' Aren't we sworn comrades under the Jolly Roger?"

Pengelly nodded.

"I'd like to remind him of another saw," he soliloquised. "'When thieves fall out.' But perhaps I'd better not."

[1] King of Prussia: soubriquet of John Carter, a noted Cornish smuggler, who in the latter part of the eighteenth century held and fortified Porth Leah, a few miles east of Marazion, as a smuggling base. On one occasion he fired the guns at a revenue cutter. On another he broke into the Custom-House at Penzance and recovered various contraband goods which the Excise people had seized, taking only "his own" and no more. Carter was a sort of Cornish maritime Robin Hood. Porth Leah is now called Prussia Cove in memory of this daring smuggler.