Читать книгу The Disappearing Dhow - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 3

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“You quite realize that this is virtually your first independent command, Mr. Burton?”

Mr. Midshipman Trevor Burton, commonly known to his messmates of the gun-room as Crash Burton, looked his captain fairly and squarely in the face.

“Yes, sir!”

“Good! Now cast your eye over this,” continued the Owner, indicating a canvas-backed chart embracing a portion of the Red Sea. “Here’s your cruising ground—inside this line of reefs. You will be away from the ship for six days, unless with a piece of glorious good luck you manage to capture or destroy this elusive dhow. I want to see her captured, but if that is not practicable then send her to the bottom. In the event of bad weather you are not to hesitate to seek shelter in any of these inlets marked by a red circle on the chart; but if you do, hold no communication with the shore, and above all allow none of the picket-boat’s crew to leave her. At noon on the sixth day you are to rendezvous at the position I have indicated with a cross. There you will find Myosotis, unless anything unforeseen and of a very urgent character crops up. But understand that until that time arrives you can hope for no assistance from us. You are on a strictly independent cruise, the success of which depends solely upon your good judgment and initiative.”

“Very good, sir,” rejoined the Senior Midshipman, his spirits rising high at the unique opportunity offered him.

For a unique opportunity it was. The light-cruiser Myosotis was engaged upon the task of hunting down Arab gun-runners on the east coast of the Red Sea. Slave-dhows were practically a thing of the past; but gun-running offered both excitement and profit to the wily Arabs, who had latterly employed modern scientific inventions to aid them in their nefarious enterprises.

So far ill-luck had followed the British light-cruiser. Several of her officers and men were down with a mild type of malaria, sufficient to render them unfit for duty. Most of them, fearing that in consequence of the malady the ship would be withdrawn from the scene of operations, had “carried on” in spite of attempts on the part of the medical staff to induce them to go into the “sick bay”. But the fact remained that there was no junior officer above the rank of sub-lieutenant available to take charge of the picket-boat; so that important duty fell to the lot of Midshipman “Crash” Burton.

The snotty was nineteen years of age, tall, lean, muscular. His nickname was not due to the fact that he had been involved in a flying accident, but because he had achieved no small measure of fame amongst his fellows by smashing up three motor-cycles in less than a month. Fortunately for him his “governor” was in a position to stand the expense—and still more fortunate he himself had escaped injury, otherwise his recklessness would have brought down the wrath of the powers-that-be upon his unrepentant head.

“Have you any request to make?” inquired Captain Dacres.

The Owner in the privacy of his cabin was apparently a very different individual from the captain on the quarter-deck. He had the reputation of being a strict and impartial disciplinarian, as was necessary to the efficiency of a modern warship; but underlying his austerity of manner was a kindly disposition that endeared him to every member of the ship’s company. In lower-deck parlance the Owner was “proper jonnick”, which is the highest term of appreciation that a bluejacket can bestow upon anyone.

“Yes, sir,” replied Burton; “can I have Kelby with me?”

Only for a moment did Captain Dacres hesitate before giving his decision. In that moment he reviewed both sides of the case. Midshipman Kelby was, he knew, Burton’s special chum. Both were high-spirited youths, and when in one another’s company might let themselves go, to the prejudice of discipline. On the other hand the skipper vividly remembered his early days in the Service, and how in times of peril and adventure—and many such had fallen to his lot—he had been loyally backed up by his boon companion of the gun-room.

“Certainly,” he replied, and wisely refrained from adding the injunction, “but mind the pair of you don’t get into mischief”. “Certainly; well, that’s all, I think. See that the picket-boat’s fuelled, watered and provisioned and report to the officer of the watch. I want her well clear of the ship before sunset.”

Saluting smartly, Burton turned and left the captain’s cabin. Then, somewhat to the astonishment of the marine sentry, the snotty raced along the half-deck, and unceremoniously burst into the darkened gun-room, where side-curtains drawn outside wide-open scuttles and whirring electric fans vainly attempted to battle with the stifling heat.

The one occupant of the gun-room was a freckled, red-haired youth of eighteen, who was wearing only a singlet, a pair of shorts and canvas shoes. On the table, close at hand, was a tall glass of iced drink; in front of him a writing-pad, smeared with ink and moist with perspiration from the youth’s hand.

“Hello, Badger!” exclaimed Burton. “Get a move on!”

“Can’t,” replied Midshipman Kelby laconically. “Too jolly hot; ’sides I’m making that report to the commander. He’s got an idea into his head that I know who poured beer into the back of the ward-room piano, and I’ve got to convince him that I jolly well don’t know. It’s a hard life!”

“That report can wait for a week, old son.”

“Wish it could,” groaned the victim of the commander’s suspicion and displeasure.

“Well, it can,” declared Burton. “Skipper’s orders. You’re coming away with me in the picket-boat. The Bloke will have forgotten all about the beer-sodden ivories when you return.”

“Honest?” asked Kelby.

“Honest. I asked the Owner and he said it was O.K. We’ve to get away by one bell in the second dog watch. There’s a big dhow reported inside the reefs and the Owner thinks it’s the one that gave the Penguin’s boats the slip. My orders are to capture or destroy. So get a move on.”

Badger Kelby needed no further inducement. His lassitude vanished. To him the prospect of six gruelling days in the picket-boat suggested something of the nature of a picnic. At any rate it meant a welcome change from the routine and discipline of the light-cruiser.

To the accompaniment of disjointed scraps of conversation the two midshipmen made their hurried preparations, collecting kit and navigating instruments and arms. Their dirks, mere emblems of rank, were discarded in favour of cutlasses, while in addition each had a service revolver in a holster and secured by means of a lanyard round his neck.

Another midshipman entered the gun-room.

“Picket-boat’s swung out and alongside, Burton,” he reported. “Lucky dog!” he added enviously.

“Two of us,” corrected Kelby.

“Then I bet Crash Burton wangled it for you,” rejoined the snotty. “I’ll bet you a month’s pay.”

“Thanks, I’m not taking you on,” replied the favoured one cheerfully. “Ready, old son?”

The two chums gained the upper deck, duly reported themselves to the officer of the watch, and descended to the lower boom, at the end of which the picket-boat was made fast.

In the Service there is a saying that a ship is known by her boats, and certainly the picket-boat of the Myosotis was a credit to her. She was painted the lightest shade of grey that the regulations permitted. Her brass-work shone like gold, her teak planking was scrubbed to a state of perfection. The “hands”, wearing white tropical uniform with sun helmets, were already on board. Only the six-pounder Q.F. mounted on a pedestal for’ard and the weapons worn by the two midshipmen were evidence of the grim nature of the task that lay before her.

Most of the remaining ship’s company manned the side to give the picket-boat a good send-off. At the extremity of the bridge the captain stood to bid the adventurers God-speed, while most of the officers were on the quarter-deck to bid the picket-boat’s crew good luck.

“Cast off for’ard!” ordered Midshipman Burton. “Let go aft!”

He spun the wheel to port, and gave the engine-room gong a ring as a sign for the engine-room artificer to set the machinery in motion.

A smother of froth leapt from under the picket-boat’s quarter. She forged ahead, steadied on her helm.

The Great Adventure had begun!