Читать книгу Captain Fosdyke's Gold - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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The “hack-yard”, as Paul Denis irreverently termed it, was the branch depot of Messrs. Findon & Rayse’s Salvage Company. It was situated on the shores of a backwater on the west side of Falmouth Harbour. Formerly a shipbuilding yard in the far-off days when Falmouth was at the height of its prosperity as a packet-station, it had become derelict until Mr. Findon, scenting its possibilities, acquired the property and proceeded to equip it for the requirements of modern marine salvage work.

The building sheds had been converted into spacious stores, where steel and wire ropes, blocks, tools, buoys, timber for shoring, diving-bells and diving-dresses all had their appointed places. A fairly pretentious stone-built house surrounded by a well-kept garden occupied part of the premises. In it lived Captain Condor, the Marine Superintendent and Skipper of the salvage vessel Gleaner. Between the work-yard and the street was a row of cottages in the occupation of permanent employees of the firm. There were two slipways capable of hauling up the largest vessel of the salvage fleet, and a small stone jetty terminating in a wooden pier equipped with cranes and a pair of sheer-legs. Of the ground not built upon, most of it was covered with old iron and steel plating—the remains of various wrecks raised by the firm and, found to be unfit for repair, broken up for disposal as “scrap” metal.

Although it was yet early in the morning—the workmen had not started work—smoke was issuing from the chimneys of Captain Condor’s house.

“The Cap’n told me that breakfast would be ready,” observed Denis, as he switched off the ignition of the car. “Your luggage will be all right until we get a man to bring it into the house.”

Rob had rather dreaded the meeting with the branch superintendent. He knew that Captain Condor was an elderly man, and, although their respective duties ran on parallel lines, it was quite possible that their ideas might clash. If they were temperamentally opposed to each other the result would be disadvantageous, if not fatal, to the impending operations. The Captain might resent working with a much younger man.

But the young assistant engineer’s misgivings were quickly set at rest when the door was opened by Captain Condor, who, in a deep, hearty voice, welcomed the new arrival.

“I’m rare glad tu see you, Mr. Wroxall!” he exclaimed. “Come in! Come in! You’ll be real glad of something to eat an’ drink after your long journey from Lunnon.”

Captain George Condor—or Cap’n Garge as he was known to his friends and neighbours—was a tall, massively built man of about forty-five. He was full-faced without being flabby. His blue eyes twinkled with grim humour under a pair of bushy eyebrows. He had a rather heavy moustache clipped close at the ends. His face was tanned by sun and sea. His hair was thick and inclined to curliness. Faithful to a fast-dying custom amongst Cornish seafaring folk, he wore gold earrings. As the Captain stood on the steps of the front door, Rob noticed that he had a slight stoop—the result of years in vessels with insufficient headroom, and that his feet were placed well apart while his big frame swayed slightly from side to side—another indication of long service on the heaving decks of sea-going craft.

He was dressed in a reefer coat and trousers of dark-blue pilot cloth, double soft collar, and black tie. His heavy black boots with leather laces, although well cleaned, were treated with “dubbin”. His reefer coat was unbuttoned, revealing an expanse of waistcoat across which was a massive silver chain. Later, Rob discovered that at one end of the chain was a large silver watch that once belonged to Cap’n Garge’s “grandfer”; at the other a gold box containing a caul—another symbol of old-time seafaring superstition that the possession of this peculiar object was considered a sovereign safeguard against the wearer meeting his death by drowning.

When out of doors Captain Condor wore a glazed-peaked cap, complete with badge, white covered or otherwise according to recognized dictates of authority.

Rob, a fair judge of human character in spite of his youth, sized his man up in a quick, appraising glance. What he saw was good. He grasped the proffered horny hand in a bond of comradeship.

A few minutes later the two principals in the impending salvage job were sitting down to a plain but substantial Cornish breakfast in which pasties and rich clotted cream, fried whiting, eggs and bacon were offered to and accepted by the Captain’s guest.

“When do you propose getting tu work?” asked Condor.

“As soon as possible,” replied Rob. “We mustn’t lose the advantage of these neap tides.”

The district superintendent slapped his massive thigh.

“That’s rale good tu hear you!” he exclaimed. “Give me a man who knows how tu work his tides. These neaps (“nips” was his pronunciation) will gi’ us a fine opportunity tu place hawsers under the wreck. Not that we’ll have a soft job, I reckon. There’s the counter-currents below fifteen fathom that’s tu be taken into account. You’ve had enough tu eat? Perhaps you’ll be wanting to go tu sleep a few hours, or did you have a caulk in the train?”

“I can carry on quite all right, thanks,” replied Rob. “I’ll get my luggage in and then we’ll go through the list of gear. There may be something I have omitted, so if you find anything that will be wanted I wish you’d let me know.”

Captain Condor perused the list and pronounced it as “perfect as he knew how”. Then he glanced at his watch.

“Bell’ll go in two minutes,” he observed. “I make a point of being at the in-muster. P’raps you’ll be coming along o’ I—along with me, I mean.”

“Certainly,” agreed Wroxall, although he felt a disinclination to move from his comfortable chair. A good meal, coupled with the soft, relaxing Falmouth air and following upon a sleepless night probably accounted for his lassitude.

He went with the captain to the ticket office at the entrance gates. The warning bell had already rung and the workmen were trooping in, each “clocking-in” under the vigilant eyes of a foreman.

“There’s Black—one of our best divers,” remarked the captain, indicating a tall, slenderly-built man. “And there’s White, another good diver. Strange their names being Black and White, but that makes no difference to what they can do. And there’s Trevarrick, the man who blew the bows off the Samson, when she got hard ashore along down by Carn Dhu.”

The stream of men thinned as the hands of the clock approached the hour. Almost at the last moment a dark-featured, curly-headed man, reminding Rob of a Spaniard, dashed up to the recorder and “clocked himself in”.

“Cut it fine again, Polglaze,” exclaimed Captain Condor. “Nearly lost it this time.”

“Zure, zur,” agreed the man. “It all comes along o’ livin’ in the terrace. When I had a house in the ’ope’ I could du a rare sprint and catch meself oop!”

“That’s one of the divers’ attendants,” explained Rob’s companion, when Polglaze had gone beyond earshot. “A sound fellow, but inclined tu cut things fine. Did you follow his excuse?”

“ ’Fraid I couldn’t.”

“He’s recently moved into one of the houses on the firm’s premises, so if he’s late he’s late; but when he lived a mile from the works he could always run and gain on the time he would have taken to walk. That’s one disadvantage of having employees living close to the works.”

“But it’s very handy in other respects,” remarked Rob.

“Ay; it doesn’t take long tu get a crew together. I’m going tu do it now.”

With that Captain Condor beckoned to the foreman.

“This be Mr. Wroxall from the Lunnon office,” he said. “He’s in charge of the job I was a-telling you of yesterday. I want the Gleaner ready, full crew and gear aboard, month’s provisions stowed and steam raised. How long afore you’m ready?”

The foreman scratched his head.

“Have you got a list of gear wanted, sir?”

“I have that,” replied Captain Condor.

“Say a matter of four hours an’ t’Gleaner’ll be ready to start, sir.”

“Right—by half-past ten, then.”

Leaving the foreman—who during the district superintendent’s absence was in charge of the depot—to make the required arrangements, Captain Condor ordered a man to bring Mr. Wroxall’s gear down to the jetty.

“We may as well go aboard and see tu things there,” he suggested. “Not that there’s likely tu be aught amiss but ’tes best tu be on t’safe side like!” Then as he passed the office he shouted: “Paul, are you’m there? Look lively, my boy, we’m away come a’past ten.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” replied Denis, and in high glee he hurried off to exchange the routine of office work for the excitement of an instruction trip in the Company’s salvage tug.

“Glass steady an’ wind nor’west,” observed Captain Condor. “If it holds up and wind’s aslant off the land we ought to get the wreck slung in fine style. Mind you, I’m not sayin’ it’s going tu be child’s play, Mr. Wroxall. Now, in you get and I’ll row us off.”

He indicated a tubby dinghy moored to the jetty by a generous scope of painter. Making his way down a vertical ladder, the bottommost rungs of which were slippery with seaweed, Rob stepped into the boat and sat in the stern-sheets.

The captain followed with an agility unexpected from one with his massive frame, shipped the crutches and pulled with long, steady strokes.

It was now half-flood, and with the tide under her it did not take the dinghy long to cover the distance between the jetty and the salvage tug.

“Gleaner ahoy!” hailed Captain Condor. “Stand by to take our painter!”