Читать книгу Captain Fosdyke's Gold - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 4

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At six o’clock Rob returned to his rooms, had a substantial meal, and then commenced to pack. He had to travel “light”, to avoid being encumbered with anything he could actually do without. On the other hand he must leave no essential behind. He had to be equipped for perhaps two months afloat, except for a few hours’ hurried visits to some isolated port. For necessaries of clothing he must be independent of the shore. Kit for fair weather and foul, uniforms for use in the variable conditions of an English summer, replacements—since salvage work is hard on clothes—all had to be got ready in addition to oilskins and sea-boots. Technical books, instruments, and other articles indispensable to his calling had to be found room for, so that no delay would be caused by their absence during the impending operations.

Everything packed to his satisfaction, Rob “shifted”—to use a nautical expression—into working uniform. For an indefinite period he had finished with the conventional dress of city life. He was about to be cut off from the amenities of town. Newspapers would come to him only at irregular intervals. He would have no postal address other than c/o Messrs. Findon & Rayse, Ltd., and with reasonable luck he might expect letters once a week. Instead of lying between linen sheets in a comfortable bed he would soon find himself in coarse blankets, and in a narrow bunk in a small cabin on board the salvage-craft Gleaner. But outweighing all these slight disadvantages would be the pleasure of exchanging the petrol-reeking air of London for the crisp, exhilarating salt-laden breezes of the English Channel.

He was keeping on his rooms. It was necessary to have a pied-à-terre in London, and the Company paid for its retention, except when it was a case of proceeding abroad with the possibility of remaining away for several months.

At Paddington, Rob expected to find a crowded train, since the summer holiday season was close at hand. To his relief he secured a compartment to himself, and with typical British insularity drew the blinds on the corridor side. He saw prospects of being able to snatch a few hours’ sleep during the long journey to the west country.

The train had barely gathered speed when the sliding door was opened, and Rob was no longer in sole possession.

The new-comer was a man of above average height, bronzed, and bearded in naval style. He was dressed in dark blue, with a soft felt hat. He carried a malacca walking-stick in addition to a small suitcase. The latter he placed in the luggage rack, and, having dusted a corner seat with a folded newspaper, he sat opposite to Rob, but next to the corridor.

Rob looked at him mainly with the idea of forming some opinion of the new arrival’s profession, which, probably, he might never be able to verify.

He had a seafaring air. It was unlikely that he was a naval officer. Holders of his Majesty’s commission do not as a general rule travel in third-class carriages, even though they may be in plain clothes. Rob put him down as a Merchant Service Captain about to join or rejoin his ship at one of the west country ports.

The stranger was in the act of opening his newspaper when his eyes met those of his fellow-traveller.

“Good evening!” he remarked pleasantly in well modulated tones. “You’re bound for Falmouth, I take it?”

“I am,” admitted Wroxall. “A good shot that, sir, on your part.”

“Knew I wouldn’t be far off the mark,” continued the other. “Happened to see the badge on your cap on the rack over your head. Findon & Rayse, Salvage Company, isn’t it?”

“You know our firm, then?” asked Rob, secretly gratified that the new-comer was not only aware of the existence of a comparatively new company, but that he was able to identify the badge, even in the imperfect light in the carriage.

“They did a job for my owners off the Mumbles,” explained the other. “The Amberley of Crawfords & Craig’s. Smart job they made of it, too.”

“I remember the case, though it was before my time,” remarked Rob. “So you are in Crawfords & Craig’s?”

“I command the Amilcar. Fosdyke’s my name, if that is of any interest to you. The ship fractured her mainshaft off the Longships, and is just completing repairs at Falmouth. We’re bound for Bonny, Calabar, and Abuea, with a cargo of railway material. I suppose you’ve never heard of Abuea?”

Rob smiled.

“I happen to have heard of it,” he replied. “It is a small port in the Cameroons.”

“Have you, by Jove!” exclaimed Captain Fosdyke. “That’s strange—a one-sided hole like that. In what connexion did you know of it?”

“I was on the point of being sent out there,” explained Wroxall. “A cargo boat, the Lapwing, went ashore just inside the bar, and our people are going to raise her.”

“They’ll have some job, take my word for it,” declared the Captain. “I know the spot. Shifting sand—regular quicksands. Well, I may run across you out there.”

“I’m not going on that job, just yet,” said Rob. “Probably in another two months, when our suction sand-dredger is at liberty, I may be sent out there. It’s rather a coincidence coming across someone who knows that part of the coast. Will you have a cigarette?”

“No, thanks!” Captain Fosdyke waved aside the proffered case, and proceeded to fill a well-coloured meerschaum. “Pipe’s more in my line—something with a bite in it. Coincidence? Bless my soul, the world’s chock-a-block with coincidences. Just before I left the hotel I’ve been staying at for the last week, I came across one that brought me up all standing.”

He struck a match and puffed at his pipe.

Had Rob not responded to the implied invitation his curiosity would not have been satisfied. But, being curious, he rejoined with an inquisitive “Well?”

“At dinner I was yarning with an old chap who had held a Government job in Calcutta. We mentioned the Hugli, and I casually asked him if he knew the James and Mary Sands. ‘James and Mary Sands?’ he replied, ‘I should think I did. I remember a vessel going ashore there in 1876—forelock coming adrift from the anchor-stock did it—capsizing and disappearing within three minutes!’ ‘That’s strange,’ I remarked. ‘Do you happen to know the pilot’s name?’ ‘Yes, let me think! I have it; Captain Denver of the Hugli Pilot Service. I can tell you what he wore when he was brought ashore!’ ‘That’s very remarkable,’ I said. ‘There’s Captain Denver, sitting at the other end of this table. He was telling me about the same incident only this morning!’ You see, these two old gentlemen, each is well over eighty, had been staying at the same hotel for a week, and hadn’t spoken to each other since 1876. That’s only one of many cases I have come across in which coincidence stands out as prominently as Polaris on a clear night!”

“You know the West Coast well, I take it?” remarked Rob, anxious to profit by his companion’s experience.

“As well as most skippers on that route,” replied Captain Fosdyke. “My father and my elder brother were in the same line, and I dare say the name Fosdyke is known on the Coast. My brother Dick was the first to take a vessel into Abuea after the Germans were driven out of the Cameroons, and they’d shifted the leading marks and put down mines in the fairway. He was in command of the Antibar. She was supposed to have been put down by a U-boat in ’17. At any rate she never turned up—lost with all hands.”

“Hard lines,” remarked Rob sympathetically. “There’s one blessing; in future wars merchant shipping will be protected from ruthless sinking.”

“I wonder!” rejoined Captain Fosdyke. “I wonder! Modern warfare is a pretty dirty business, and since it has been proposed at the London Naval Conference to shift the onus of submarine atrocities from the commander of the under-surface craft to the government of the country whose flag they fly it seems to me that there’ll be precious little regard for rules and regulations. From what I see of it, the Naval Conference was merely an opportunity for continental nations to assert what strength they wanted—not what they were willing to reduce—Great Britain having already decided upon scrapping valuable cruisers and abandoning the construction of others. In my opinion—and you’ll find most seafaring people think the same—the statesmen who convened the London Naval Conference will go down to posterity as empire breakers—nothing more nor less!”

“It is claimed that the submarine is a weapon of defence essential to weaker nations,” remarked Rob.

“Is it? As a commerce destroyer, perhaps, and it certainly isn’t fit for that. France and Italy want to retain submarines because they are mutually distrustful of each other. It seems to me that people of Latin extraction haven’t the right temperament for the sea—either on or under it. What did French and Italian submarines do in the Great War? Practically nothing. The Germans made full use of them. The British and the Yank did so whenever an opportunity occurred. Germany isn’t allowed submarines; Britain and America are willing to scrap theirs, and the sooner the other nations agree to do the same the better for all concerned. Scrapping submarines is one of the first essentials towards the establishment of lasting understanding and good fellowship amongst nations. By the way, have you ever been down in a diving-dress?”

Rob admitted that he had on several occasions.

“Don’t think I’d fancy it,” remarked Captain Fosdyke. “Although, mind you, I’d like to have the experience.”

“If you take my advice, you won’t,” declared Wroxall.

“Oh! why not?”

“Speaking professionally and with no offence, you are not only a little too old, but you aren’t physically fit for diving.”

“Young man, I’m perfectly fit, and never felt better in my life!”

“I don’t question that,” said Rob. “You may be perfectly all right for your particular occupation. But when it comes to finding yourself under very considerably more than atmospheric pressure—I wouldn’t take the responsibility of sending you down!”

They discussed various matters pertaining to salvage-work—decompression, the use of compressed air, the uses of cement for under-water repairs, and exchanged anecdotes of skilful and successful operations both on the ships afloat and the sunken ships that, but for the salvor’s work, would have made their last plunge to Davy Jones’s locker.

“Hello!” exclaimed Captain Fosdyke, as the train commenced to slow down. “Truro already, by Jove! This journey’s gone quickly! Wonder if we have to wait long for a connexion?”

Rob collected his luggage. The captain, who had left most of his in the van, went off to retrieve the rest of his belongings.

There was something exhilarating in the cool morning air, for it was now light, and the triple towers of the Cathedral stood out clearly above the roofs of the Cornish town.

“Mr. Wroxall, I believe?”

Rob, bending over some of his belongings, straightened himself and looked at the speaker—a cheerful-faced lad of about eighteen, whose visible attire consisted of a long leather coat, golf cap, leggings, and boots.

“I’ve brought a car to take you to Falmouth,” explained the youth when Rob had admitted his identity. “Mr. Findon sent a trunk call to say you were on the mail train, so Captain Condor suggested to our manager that I should run into Truro with the car.”

“Awfully good of you,” said Rob, taking at once a liking to the lad. “You’ve not had much sleep last night.”

“I’m used to that. A fellow gets accustomed to night work in our job. I happen to be one of Findon & Rayse’s apprentices, and I think I’m being sent with you in the Gleaner.”

“I’m glad of that,” rejoined Rob. “What’s your name?”

“Denis—Paul Denis,” was the reply.

At that moment Captain Fosdyke, having seen that his luggage was correct, came along the platform. Seeing Wroxall talking to someone, he paused.

“What’s the car, Denis?” asked Rob. “Two-seater?”

“No—four,” was the reply. “Why?”

“A gentleman I met on the train,” explained the Assistant Engineer. “He’s for Falmouth too. We might offer him a lift.... I say, Captain, we’ve a car. Can we run you into Falmouth?”

“Thanks awfully,” replied Captain Fosdyke. “Better than waiting here for twenty minutes. I’ll tell the porter to take my gear.”

“Good morning, Captain Fosdyke!” exclaimed Denis, “I didn’t expect to run across you here and at this time of day.”

“Providing you don’t run over me with your car, I don’t mind,” remarked the merchant skipper, smiling. “But dashed if I can fix you!”

“Please, don’t,” countered Denis. “It’s hard lines if I am to be fixed by you—although you did give me jolly good hiding once. And I thunderingly well deserved it too!”

“I’ve tanned a good many youngsters during thirty years at sea,” admitted Captain Fosdyke. “Some of them didn’t deserve it, perhaps, but the majority did! But I must confess I don’t remember you.”

“It wasn’t at sea where you gave me a hiding,” explained the youth, obviously enjoying the older man’s perplexity. “It was about eight or nine years ago, when you were living at Hoylake (when you weren’t at sea, of course). My people lived in the next house, and on one occasion and one only I shinned up one of your apple trees. You caught me!”

“You’re Captain Denis’s son, then.”

“Right, sir!”

Fosdyke turned to Rob.

“Didn’t I say the world’s chock-a-block with coincidences, Mr. Wroxall? But if we remain on this platform reminiscencing much longer we might just as well have saved Denis the trouble of bringing the car.”

Denis led the way to the waiting open car. The joint luggage was piled either in the back, leaving room for one passenger, or strapped to the grid.

“Going to take her, Mr. Wroxall?” asked Denis.

Rob shook his head.

“I’d like to, but for various reasons,” he replied. “I don’t know the road, and I might pitch the lot of us out. I haven’t a driving-licence with me, and even at this time of the morning I might be asked for it by a bobby. And, as I don’t want to contribute to the Cornwall County funds in the form of a fine, I’d better let you carry on. Will you sit with Denis, Captain Fosdyke, and I’ll squeeze in the rear seat.”

Denis slid into the driver’s seat, waited until his passengers were safely on board, and then pressed the self-starter. Quickly the car gathered speed, and was soon doing a good forty along the up-and-down gradients bordering the wooded shores of the Fal and its numerous creeks.

“Steady, man, steady!” cautioned the Captain more than once. “You’ll capsize the lot of us!”

“It’s all right, sir, really,” Denis assured him. “She’ll do sixty easily. I’ve got her well under control.”

But it was perfectly obvious to Rob that the Captain was far from feeling at ease. Several times he positively gasped, while he gripped the top of the door so tightly that his knuckles showed white under the tan.

“Nervous as a cat!” thought Wroxall. “Hope he doesn’t try to grip the steering-wheel.”

Captain Fosdyke’s ordeal, however long it might seem to him, lasted barely twenty minutes. After whizzing through the deserted streets of Penryn, the car pulled up at the Prince of Wales’ pier.

The Captain alighted and shook hands with Rob and Denis.

“They’ve undocked the Amilcar,” he observed, pointing to a tramp steamer lying at anchor with several other vessels in Carrick Roads. “I may get away on this afternoon’s tide. If I don’t, come aboard, both of you, if you can. If not, cheerio! to our next merry meeting—on the West Coast perhaps!”

Captain Fosdyke beckoned to a waterman to assist him with his luggage and to row him off to his ship.

Denis set the car in motion to complete the remaining distance to the Falmouth depot of Messrs. Findon & Rayse, Ltd.

“Decent fellow, Captain Fosdyke,” remarked Rob, who had shifted to the front seat vacated by his acquaintance of the train. “But wasn’t he frightfully jumpy in the car!”

“And I guess I should be if I’d been through what he has,” rejoined Denis. “He won’t say anything about it, but my pater told me. He was in command of a vessel that was chased by a U-boat for eight hours. They shelled him. He ordered everyone off the bridge and took the wheel himself, zigzagging all the time. He was hit by splinters three times, once in the head, but stuck it until the U-boat sheered off when a destroyer showed up. He was in hospital three months, came out, got another ship, and was torpedoed in her. He was taken prisoner and remained in Germany till the Armistice. After that he went to sea again. He told my pater that the only time his nerves are all right is when he is on the bridge! Here we are: here’s the jolly old hack-yard!”