Читать книгу Round the World in the "Golden Gleaner" - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 7

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“We don’t know,” admitted Gerald miserably.

The bottom seemed to have been knocked out of the chums’ world. After days of alternate hopes and fears they had raced against time and adverse conditions only to be “pipped on the post” by a matter of minutes.

“I do!” declared their benefactor briskly. “We’ll overhaul her in Fidelity. Get a move on!”

There was no time for conversation or explanation.

The two lads gripped their suitcases, and, already almost breathless, panted heavily as they accompanied their new friend.

It was about a quarter of an hour’s brisk walk to the shipyard where the motor-launch was usually kept during her owner’s absence.

Fishwick, the paid hand, was on deck. If he wondered who were his employer’s two guests he expressed no surprise. The one thing that did worry him was—supposing them to be on board over the long week-end—whether he’d laid in a sufficient stock of provisions.

“All aboard, you two!” exclaimed Mr. Gregory, indicating a narrow gang-plank. “Stow your gear in the cabin. Start her up, Fishwick!”

Already that morning Fidelity’s engine had been running. It required one touch of the starter for the motor to resume activity.

Mr. Gregory, accompanied by the chums, went into the sunk wheel-house, while the paid hand hauled the gang-plank inboard and dexterously jerked the two bowlined securing ropes from their respective bollards.

Then, pulling the gear lever in the ahead position, the owner gave a slight turn of the steering-wheel.

The Fidelity leapt forward. They were under way. It was all as simple as that.

By the time they were clear of the estuary of the Itchen and were heading down Southampton Water, the S.S. Golden Gleaner was out of sight.

“I reckon she’ll be doing twelve knots compared with our fifteen, lads,” declared Mr. Gregory.

“But will she stop for us?” asked Peter.

“Not likely,” replied Fidelity’s owner. “You could hardly expect the master of a seven thousand tonner to stop for a motor-boat of this size. We’ll have to follow her down the Needles Channel and then put you two aboard when she stops to drop her pilot.”

“Aren’t we taking you a lot out of your way, sir?” asked Gerald.

“That’s nothing,” declared Mr. Gregory. “It doesn’t matter to me whether I go fishing on Lymington Banks at one end of the Solent, or on Ryde Middle, at the other. Are you fellows hungry?”

The chums had to admit that they were. They had eaten nothing since their scratchy breakfast at about seven that morning.

“Fishwick!” shouted his employer, raising his voice to make himself heard above the noise of the engine and the plash of the waves under the motor-launch’s lean bows.

“Sir?”

“Open a tin of turkey and cut sandwiches. We’ll have coffee in preference to tea. Bring the grub here, then we won’t need to use the cabin.”

Presently the Fidelity passed a low-lying spit of land to starboard, that was crowned by a circular stone fort.

“That’s Calshot—a Royal Air Force station,” explained their host. “See that buoy to port? That marks the Brambles Shoal. Two years ago I saw one of Whatmough, Duvant’s ships pile herself on it during a thick fog and, but for radar, your Golden Gleaner would have crashed into her stern. There’s shoal water to port of us, but enough for our draught. We’ll cut off a couple of miles, while the Golden Gleaner must follow the tortuous buoyed channel. We ought to be sighting her soon.”

But, except for a collier heading for Southampton, the visible part of the Solent appeared to be deserted. The Isle of Wight was lost to sight in the thin mist that was reducing visibility to about half a mile.

The almost al fresco lunch was disposed of and enjoyed. Again the chums’ spirits rose until Mr. Gregory asked: “Where is the ship bound for?”

Neither of them knew. They were in ignorance of the fact that a letter had been lying in the letter-box of their home for the past week, informing them that the Golden Gleaner was under orders for Sydney, New South Wales, and advising them that tropical clothing would be necessary for part of the voyage.

“I hope for your sakes that she isn’t bound for a Scandinavian or a German port,” remarked Mr. Gregory.

“Why, sir?” asked the chums simultaneously.

“Because, if she is, she’ll be off the eastern end of the Wight by now and on an opposite course to ours,” was the disconcerting reply.

That probability caused yet another drop in the youths’ mental barometer.

“We hope not,” declared Peter.

“It’s a three to one chance in your favour,” declared their host. “Now keep your eyes skinned. We may see her at any moment now—if we are to see her this trip!”

“There’s something, sir!” exclaimed Gerald.

Mr. Gregory raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

“It’s a destroyer bound for Spithead,” he announced, adding facetiously: “We can’t ask her to stop to inquire whether she’s passed the Golden Gleaner!”

“Couldn’t we hand-flag her, sir?” asked Peter.

“You might. I’ve forgotten my semaphore,” admitted Mr. Gregory. “She’d be in Portsmouth Harbour before I finished making the signal.”

“I’m a bit rusty too, sir. I learned how to semaphore when I was in the Sea Scouts. But I haven’t forgotten it.”

A pair of hardly ever used flags were produced from the flag locker. Armed with these, Peter took up a precarious position on the Fidelity’s fore-deck.

The destroyer was approaching at high speed. Provided she held on her present course, she would pass Fidelity—port to port—at a distance of about half a cable’s length. There would be very little time for Peter to send the message and for the destroyer to reply—if she condescended to do so!

It was hardly any use for Peter to start his message until the on-coming warship bore broad on the motor-launch’s bow, and it would be equally futile when she bore astern. Between those two periods Peter must slap in his message and receive the reply.

He held the two hand-flags at the “preparatory”. Within a matter of seconds a signalman appeared upon the deck of the destroyer’s chart-house.

“Have you seen Golden Gleaner?” asked Peter.

There was a brief pause. Evidently the “bunting-tosser” was asking instructions from one of the officers on the bridge as to what to reply.

Then came the answer in three words, with one letter misread:

“Off Mack Jack!”

There wasn’t time for Peter to ask for the message to be repeated. All he could do was to signal the “acknowledgment” before the bearing and distance were too great for the hand-flags to be read.

“Hold on!” shouted Fidelity’s owner.

The warning came only just in time. Dropping the flags on the deck, the amateur signalman gripped a hand-rail as the Fidelity bucked and plunged into the destroyer’s swell.

“Her skipper ought to be run-in for furious driving, sir,” declared Peter.

“Yes; but did you get the reply?” rejoined Mr. Gregory.

“Off Mack Jack, sir, whatever that may mean,” replied Peter. “But I’m not certain about the M.”

“That’s all right,” declared Mr. Gregory. “It should be ‘Black Jack’, a buoy off Yarmouth. If the destroyer passed her there, say ten minutes ago, the Golden Gleaner must be about off Hurst Castle. We should be within a mile of her—ah! that’s a siren! She’ll be warning the pilot cutter that she’s getting ready to drop her pilot.”

This assumption proved to be correct, for some minutes later, the Golden Gleaner—Mr. Gregory was positive that it was she—loomed through the lifting mist at about a mile away.

Probably owing both to hazy conditions and to the fact that she was warning the pilot cutter, she had reduced speed to about eight knots. Fidelity was overhauling her hand over fist.

The motor-launch was slowed down. There was no object in attempting to tranship the two cadets until the ship had stopped, and that wouldn’t be until the pilot was ready to quit her.

For several minutes Fidelity continued to keep in the Golden Gleaner’s wake without arousing any interest on the part of the latter’s crew. Then a man in dungarees appeared by the taffrail. He, evidently, drew someone’s attention to the persistent “hanger-on”, for presently more men crowded aft, some in dungarees, others in jerseys and canvas trousers. They began to wave. The chums guessed correctly that they were some of their future messmates—cadets of the S.S. Golden Gleaner, even though they weren’t in uniform.

Then an officer came aft. Through a megaphone he hailed Fidelity: “Come alongside when we lose way!”

That took the last remaining load off the chums’ minds. They were being welcomed like a couple of lost sheep!

The officer megaphoned again.

“Defer coming alongside until pilot has left!”

“That’s to remind you two that you’re very small fry!” commented Mr. Gregory. “You have to give right of way to an exalted member of the Board of Pilotage!”

The pilot cutter was now in sight, as she prepared to close with the stationary Golden Gleaner.

The chums had hitherto been under the delusion that a cutter was a single-masted craft, generally a yacht, that carried a mainsail, staysail and jib. This one didn’t have canvas and was entirely dependent upon mechanical power. They had hardly got over this surprise when they were up against another. They had expected the pilot cutter would run alongside the larger craft and that the pilot would leave the latter by means of an accommodation ladder.

Instead a boat pushed off from the cutter and the pilot swarmed down a very shaky rope ladder.

This operation looked a most interesting one, although the chums felt a bit sorry for the pilot—a short, tubby man—as he descended the side of the slightly rolling ship.

Then they began to feel sorry for themselves when they realized that they would have to use that self-same ladder—but in reverse—to gain the deck of their future floating home.

The pilot cutter’s boat pushed off and made for its parent.

“Come alongside!” shouted the officer who had previously warned the Fidelity off.

Mr. Gregory certainly knew how to handle his craft. Leaving Fishwick to put fenders over the side and heave the fore and aft lines, he brought Fidelity gently alongside.

“Sharp as you can, lads!” he shouted over his shoulder from the enclosed wheel-house.

A rope was dropped from the Golden Gleaner’s well-deck. Fishwick took a quick turn with it round the chums’ suitcases—they thought that the line was intended for them!—and signalled the crew to haul away.

Peter was the first to climb the rope ladder. He did so very gingerly, with his heart figuratively in his mouth. He’d been warned not to look down during his ascent, so he divided his attention between seeing where his hands were gripping and looking upwards to the down-turned faces of his new shipmates.

With each roll of the ship the wooden rungs, including those his feet were on, bumped with a succession of dull thuds. How he escaped barking the knuckles of his clenched hands remained a minor mystery. The whole business was like a nightmare until he realized that he was being helped over the rail by a couple of hefty, grinning lads.

Gerald, once his chum was on board, followed. He wasn’t going to risk that dizzy ascent until Peter was clear of the ladder. The rungs were slippery and he didn’t relish Peter’s ten-stone descending upon his head and shoulders!

Safe on deck, they had a hazy notion that they were being hemmed in by a small crowd of boisterous cadets and hearing a gruff but hearty greeting from one of the ship’s officers.

“We haven’t said good-bye to Mr. Gregory!” declared Gerald, suddenly aware of the omission.

They looked over the rail.

They were too late to carry out their good intentions.

The Fidelity was already heading back, under full power, for the calmer waters of the Solent.