Читать книгу Captain Cain - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 7

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It was a bold project taking the little craft across the wide Atlantic, but there were good prospects of the satisfactory realisation of Captain Cain’s plans. For one thing, the Nike was a stoutly-built and weatherly craft, although lacking the efficient upkeep that is generally bestowed upon vessels flying the red ensign. With her reduced complement there was fresh water more than sufficient for the needs of the crew. The provisions, although of a nature that a British crew would jib at, were enough to last a month. There was little fear of the voyage being unduly protracted by calms, since there was a motor on board which might reasonably be expected to take the vessel along at a steady four knots; while it was a matter of a few hundred miles before the Nike picked up the favourable south-east Trades.

On the other side of the picture they were unquestionably short-handed. It meant long watches and the mustering of all hands whenever it became necessary to trim or take-in sail.

Almost the first thing Cain did, as soon as the boat was out of sight, was to stow the square topsails and send the yards down, thus virtually converting the vessel into a fore-and-aft schooner. That alone saved a considerable amount of labour in the subsequent management of the ship, although in light and favourable winds her speed would suffer in consequence.

“Better to jog along steadily than to risk losing your sticks over the side, Mr. Barnard,” he observed. “I’m not keen on sending any one aloft on a dark night to take in topsails. And there’s another thing; hanged if I like all that booze aboard. It may cause a racket when we get across to the other side. We’ll start the lot.”

“Not keep any, sir?” asked the bo’sun dubiously.

“No, not a drop,” rejoined Cain. “This is going to be a long ship—a very long ship. The rifles? We’ll hang on to them. We might strike some place where there’s a revolution on. This is not at all an unlikely proposition. If so, they’ll come in handy. Just before we left England, you may remember, there was a revolution in Paraquil del Norte. It might still be on. If it isn’t, it’s ten to one the counter-revolution is in full blast. Hang it all! I may yet become a second Cochrane, or another O’Higgins.”

“Who might they be, sir?” inquired Barnard.

Cain explained.

“And you, Barnard, might rise to the rank of general in the Paraquil del Norte Republican Army,” he added. “How would that suit?”

“It depends a lot on the dibs, sir,” replied the bo’sun. “Wearing a cocked hat and gold lace isn’t much of a catch unless there’s plenty of rhino to go along with it.”

“We’ll get plenty, never fear,” rejoined Cain confidentially. “Now pipe hands to dinner. After that we’ll whip those casks out of the hold and ditch them.”

It was not because Cain was a teetotal fanatic that he ordered the spirits to be thrown overboard. On the contrary, he was fond of a whisky-and-soda, but he was willing to deny himself that—even though the whisky was pretty inferior stuff of the fire-water brand—rather than risk the possible ill-effects of potent spirit as far as his men were concerned.

There was no open hesitation on the part of either Davidge or Cross at the curt order to “up-casks and overboard.” They knew their skipper pretty well by this time, and were well content to abide by his judgment. Incidentally they realised that it was not well to trifle with the savage temper which Cain himself had often a severe struggle to keep under control.

Zaros, although he had good cause to fear the new skipper, cherished an idea that he might circumvent him by guile. During the task of throwing overboard the casks he contrived to secrete a bottle in his jumper and afterwards to transfer it to his locker.

For the next week all went well. The wind held fair and steady, enabling the Nike to reel off mile after mile with the regularity of clockwork. No inquisitive warship, sent in pursuit by an outraged Government, appeared in sight. It was safe to conclude, therefore, that the Greek ex-skipper of the Nike had deemed discretion the better part of valour and had preferred to utter futile maledictions upon the Englishmen who had got to wind’ard of him than to risk penal servitude at the price of revenge.

Zaros appeared to shape so well that Cain decided to let him take a trick at the helm without keeping him under constant supervision, and for five days following this innovation the Greek carried out his duties faithfully.

One evening Zaros stood the First Watch. At four bells Cain and Davidge were turned in; Barnard and Cross were standing by to take the Middle Watch. It was a bright moonlight night with a fairly calm sea. The Nike, close-hauled in the port-tack, was making about three and a half knots.

Suddenly a rasping sound was heard, followed by a shriek and a heavy splash. In a trice the bo’sun dashed on deck, followed by Cross. Even in the short time that elapsed between the noise and Barnard gaining the deck the schooner had run up into the wind with her fore-and-aft canvas shaking violently.

Bounding aft, the bo’sun gripped the wheel and put the helm hard-a-port. Fortunately the schooner had not lost way, and being easy in her helm was now under control, but not before Cain and Davidge appeared from below.

“Man overboard!” roared Barnard.

“I see him!” announced Cross, pointing to a small dark object a couple of hundred yards on the Nike’s starboard quarter.

“’Bout ship!” ordered Cain. “Stand by the head-sheets.”

“Helm’s a-lee, sir!”

The schooner went about without hesitation. Well it was that Cain had long before decided to dispense with the square topsails.

“I’ll take her,” said the pirate captain, placing his hand on the wheel. “Stand by, Mr. Barnard, to pick up the man. See that you’ve bowlines handy.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the bo’sun, and went for’ard to carry out the skipper’s orders.

His worst enemy—and he had many—could not deny that Cain knew how to handle a craft whether under steam or sail. Gauging his distance to a nicety, he first bore away and then put the helm down gently until the Nike lost way with her fore-foot within an oar’s length of the man in the ditch.

Barnard heaved a bowline. The Greek clutched at it wildly.

“Slip it round you, you lubber!” roared the bo’sun.

Zaros made no attempt to carry out the instructions. Already the schooner was gathering sternway and tending to fall off the wind.

“Clap on, you!” exclaimed Barnard, throwing the slack of another line to Davidge and Cross. Then passing the loop round his waist the bo’sun leapt overboard, made a hitch round the still floundering Greek and shouted to the men to haul away roundly.

Thirty seconds later Barnard was contemplating the shivering, cowering figure of the man he had rescued as the Greek crouched on the deck.

“Drunk as a lord!” he muttered, and, grasping Zaros by the legs, hauled him aft without ceremony and dumped him at the feet of Captain Cain.

“Yes; I know,” remarked Cain calmly. “The poop reeks with spirit. Get him below and shove him in his bunk. I’ll deal with him in the morning.”

It was not until six bells in the Forenoon Watch that the wretched Greek had recovered from the debauch that had not only nearly cost him his life but had imperilled the safety of the ship.

With perfect fairness Cain had deferred judgment until Zaros was able to give a coherent explanation of his actions. There was evidence in plenty to prove that the man was hopelessly intoxicated. A broken bottle found at the foot of the binnacle was produced, bearing a label that showed it had been pilfered from the hold.

The Greek admitted his guilt and begged for mercy.

“Mercy you have received,” said Cain sternly. “Your life has been spared. You have to thank Mr. Barnard that you’re not food for sharks. Now the sentence is this: for secreting liquor contrary to orders you will receive a dozen lashes. For being drunk on duty another dozen, and for neglect you will be awarded yet another dozen, with the understanding that if you give no further trouble until the end of the voyage they will be remitted. Trice him up, lads!”

The Greek, howling in anticipation, was secured by wrist and ankles to the belaying-pins round the mainmast. Then, armed with an unstranded piece of tarred rope, Barnard proceeded to execute the sentence.

At the twenty-fourth lash the Greek, too exhausted to continue his wild shrieks, was cast loose, water and vinegar was applied to the raw weals, and he was told to take to the hammock until further orders.

A week later the rugged coastline of the Republic of Paraquil del Norte hove in sight.

Now came a doubly anxious time. The Nike’s charts did not embrace the South American coast; the harbour of Bomanares, for which Cain was making, had an intricate entrance; and, moreover, the pirate captain was not at all sure of the welcome he would receive when he brought a schooner with a cargo of small arms into port.

As it was too late in the day to hope to gain the harbour before darkness set in, the Nike was hove-to, but with the first streaks of dawn she approached the land.

There was not a breath of wind to ruffle the placid surface of the sea. From shorewards came the dull rumble of heavy gunfire, while away to the nor’ard three or four vessels, having an appearance of warships, were steaming slowly as if they were conducting blockading operations.

“Hanged if I like the look of things!” said Cain to the bo’sun. “I wanted a revolution, but this is a bit too premature. Until we see how the land lies, we’d better go slow. I’ll start up the motor.”

He went below, taking Davidge with him. Although the man had had no experience of marine engines, whether internal combustion or otherwise, he could be relied upon to work the throttle and reverse gear.

As soon as Cain got the motor to start, and to be thoroughly warmed up, he went on deck, called out for “full ahead,” and steadied the schooner on her course.

Nearer and nearer grew the entrance to the harbour. On the hills on the southern side field-guns were shelling the town, while the batteries protecting Bomanares were as vigorously replying.

“Now we’re here we’ll carry on,” decided Cain. “We haven’t crossed the Atlantic to be scared stiff by a few seven-pounder shells. There’s one blessing, those gunboats don’t seem to be interfering with us.”

A quarter of an hour later the warships were hidden in a faint haze, but Cain gave an exclamation of annoyance when he noticed a motor-launch flying a green, yellow and black ensign approaching straight for the Nike.

“What rag’s that, sir?” asked Barnard, who had been studying the launch through a pair of powerful binoculars, late the property of Captain Georgeos Sepotos.

“The Republic of Ouro Preto,” was the answer. “What Ouro Preto’s doing in this concern beats me.”

“She’s chock-a-block with cocked hats an’ gold lace, sir,” reported the bo’sun.

Cain nodded. His aggressive jaw was thrust forward—a characteristic feature what he was faced with a tough proposition.

“They mean to board us,” he declared. “It’ll take more than a dozen gilded popinjays of a tenth-rate South American Republic to stop us going into Bomanares, Mr. Barnard. ’S’pose it’s a natural curiosity since we show no colours. Pity there isn’t a red ensign on board, but I’m hanged if I’ll sail under Greek colours. Get Cross aft, Mr. Barnard. Place Zaros at the helm. You might bring a tin of petrol on deck, loosen the stopper and place it at the gangway. We may be able to part on amicable terms. If we don’t, then I feel sorry for those gim-crack flatfeet in yonder launch.”

A minute later Cain gave the order for the motor to be declutched. He was too wily to enter the limits of territorial waters. Evidently the Ouro Pretoan launch thought so too, for she slowed down and circled to starboard until such time as the schooner was imprudent enough to approach within the line of territorial waters.

“Enough of this fooling,” muttered Cain angrily, and signalled to the launch to close.

There was some delay, during which a hurried consultation took place between the coffee-coloured officers in the stern-sheets. Then the launch gathered way, and finally ranged up alongside the Nike’s starboard quarter.

“What ship is this?” hailed a voice in Spanish. “Where are you bound?”

“Inglis!” replied Cain briefly.

“Ah! you Inglis den?” rejoined a voice in broken English. “Vy you no show colours?”

“Lost them in a gale of wind,” said Cain mendaciously. “We’re bound for Bomanares with a general cargo.”

“It is forbidden, señor capitan,” declared the spokesman. “Der is guar—how you call it?—var——”

“War,” prompted the pirate captain.

“Si, dat is so,” agreed the other, purposely avoiding another attempt to pronounce the word that had proved such a stumbling-block. “It declared is by the Republics of Ouro Preto an’ Banda Rica against the Republic of Paraquil del Norte.”

“And who’s winning so far?” asked Cain.

“Ouro Preto an’ her ally, Banda Rica,” declared the Spanish-speaking officer proudly.

“Then my money’s on Paraquil,” remarked Cain in an aside. “Who says we cannot enter the port?”

“By de authority of dis,” replied the officer, brandishing a paper with an enormous seal. “It is de order, señor, dat you follow me to Olivenca for de examination. You suspect are. Señor, I regret, but you are under arrest.”