Читать книгу Mystery Island - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 3

Table of Contents

“That lump o’ wreckage is fair getting on your nerves,” declared Joseph Durnford, Chief Officer of the Cosmos.

Duncan McFail, master mariner, with thirty years’ sea service to his credit, lowered his telescope before replying—

“Let me tell you, Mister, nerves didn’t come my way when they were served out. I’m interested, that’s all; and when a thing interests me I always try to get to the bottom of it. Order the whaler away, Mister. Let the ‘prentices take her. They haven’t over-exerted themselves the last forty-eight hours, not by a long chalk.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” rejoined the Chief Officer, more in agreement with the Old Man’s sentiments than with the order.

The Cosmos, a full-rigged ship of nearly one thousand five hundred tons, was lying becalmed in the Pacific. She had been thus for nearly two days, and it looked as if she would continue to be so for several hours.

Ever since daybreak the ship had been within two miles of the object that had aroused the captain’s interest. Viewed through a telescope the thing resolved itself into a small raft with a raised object at one end, and a spar broken off short about six feet above the level of the water.

Curiously enough, although both ship and raft maintained their relative positions throughout the greater part of the day—and it was now one bell in the First Dog Watch—the floating timber had not appreciably swung round. Consequently what was on the raft on the other side of the projection was invisible from the ship, a fact that perplexed Captain McFail even more.

“All this fuss over a lump o’ wreckage,” muttered the Chief as he went for’ard to turn out the three apprentices. “Well, there’s one good thing: it’ll work down the callow suet off those idle youngsters!”

A remark which tended to prove that the taciturn Durnford was not favourably inclined towards the lads. When the Chief referred to them as being idle, he did them an injustice; but that was Durnford’s attitude towards every one in the ship over whom he exercised authority. In short, he was a bully, with this in his favour: although he drove men, he was not lacking in courage, and never ordered a man to do anything which he would hesitate to perform himself.

The Cosmos had no auxiliary engine. She depended solely upon the winds to carry her from one port to another. She was three months out of London River, of which time seventeen days had been taken up between ‘Frisco and Yokohama—and Yokohama was still very many miles away.

At the Chief Officer’s leather-lunged order two of the apprentices dropped what they were doing and dashed out of the cuddy.

Both were sixteen years of age and on their first voyage. There the similarity ended, for Brian Curtiss was tall, sparely-built, and dark-featured; while Chris Alderson was six inches shorter, heavily framed, with thick limbs, a fair complexion and flaxen hair.

The third apprentice, Alec Bainbridge, was in point of age and service their senior. It was his second voyage on the Cosmos, but it would not have been had Joe Durnford been Chief Officer on the previous run, if he, Alec, had had a say in the matter.

Alec Bainbridge in appearance was midway between Curtiss and Alderson as far as height was concerned. Muscular and well-proportioned, he lacked the impulsiveness of Curtiss and the deliberate slowness of Alderson, who rarely hurried over anything except at the bull-voiced behests of the Chief Officer and the crisp orders of the choleric Old Man.

Bainbridge believed in the axiom, “Look before you leap;” yet, on the other hand, when once he made up his mind his judgment was rarely at fault.

Brian had been writing a letter—although he had not the faintest idea of how long it would be before he had an opportunity of sending it home—when the Chief ordered the apprentices on deck. Chris was busily engaged in carving the hull of a model of the Cosmos. Both dropped what they were doing at once, and went on deck in their shirt-sleeves.

Not so Alec Bainbridge. He was engaged in taking to pieces and cleaning his telescope. All that remained to be done was to refix the object-lens. That would take too long, but experience had taught him the folly of leaving lenses about. They are apt to disappear mysteriously and finally, especially as an object-lens serves as a most handy burning-glass when there are pipes to be lighted, matches are scarce, and there is no fire in the galley.

Slipping on his coat, Alec placed the lens carefully in his pocket-book, replacing the latter in the inside breast-pocket. Then, again profiting by experience, he put half a dozen hard biscuits into one side pocket and a slab of chocolate into the other.

This done, he followed his chums to where the whaler hung in davits.

“Shall I take this gear out, sir?” he asked, pointing to the mast, spars, and sail that were lashed to the boat’s thwarts.

“Take ’em out? What for?” replied the Chief Officer. “You aren’t going in for a regatta, my lad. Extra weight won’t do you any harm. Now listen. See yon bit o’ wreckage?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Alec. He had seen it off and on for the last eight hours.

“Pull over to it and examine it. It’s not more’n two miles off; so if you’re not back within an hour, look out for squalls!”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the lad. “May we take Peter?”

Peter was the ship’s dog. He belonged to no one in particular, but every one on board had part interest in him. Rough though the men were, they never once willingly harmed the animal. Even the Old Man and Chief Officer Durnford, hard-bitten, brass-bound sailormen both, regarded Peter tolerantly, but Alec, Brian, and Chris seemed to be special objects of Peter’s canine devotion.

It would be difficult to determine Peter’s breed. Jephson, the cook, who professed to be an authority on dogs, declared that the ship’s mascot was partly Newfoundland, partly retriever, with a clash of sheep-dog and collie in his composition. At any rate, Peter in being was a massive, shaggy animal, standing three feet to his fore shoulders from the ground and tipping the scale at six stone.

In spite of his nondescript ancestry and the disreputable circumstances under which he first came on board at West India Dock, Peter’s heart was in the right place. He had all the good points of a dog’s character and few, if any, of the bad.

“No, you can’t,” replied the Chief Officer in reply to Alec’s request. “It’s a boat you’re taking away, not a bloomin’ menagerie.”

Peter, who had been eagerly looking from Durnford to Alec, and no doubt taking in every word of the conversation, realised at once that his luck was out.

Standing on his hind legs and placing his paws on Alec’s shoulders, Peter gave the apprentice a hearty and decidedly moist lick. Then, with his long bushy tail between his legs, he walked dejectedly for’ard.

Durnford was on the point of relenting and calling the dog back when the Old Man raised his voice, demanding to know what “those lazy blighters were hanging on to the slack for?”

“Off with you!” ordered the Chief Officer, realising that the reprimand reflected upon him. “If that boat’s not away within a couple of minutes, look out for squalls!”

Meanwhile, some of the hands had come aft to assist in swinging out and lowering the boat. She was now ready to take the water. Brian and Chris each took an oar, sitting on opposite sides of the tarpaulined spars and mast, while Alec, shipping the rudder, sat on the stern-bench.

“Lower away!”

The falls cheeped in the blocks. The whaler with her crew bumped lightly upon the surface of the tranquil water. The disengaging gear was slipped and, bending to the heavy ash oars, the rowers “gave way.”

“No need to break blood-vessels,” remarked Chris, when the boat was out of earshot distance from the Cosmos. “I say, doesn’t the old hooker look topping.”

The three chums were genuinely fond and proud of their ship, notwithstanding the more-than-strict attitude of the Chief Officer. It took more than that to quench their enthusiasm.

At Alderson’s remark, Alec turned his head. The sight that met his gaze justified his chum’s spontaneous praise.

Like a painted ship upon a painted ocean, the Cosmos lay, her canvas hanging idly from her yards. She was close-hauled on the port tack, with yards braced taut. So calm was the surface of the water that her reflection was almost perfect. It was a picture that few seamen see nowadays: a full-rigged ship with canvas spread and lying motionless on a glassy sea.

“Twenty-three sails set,” commented Chris. “My word, when the breeze springs up we’ll have some work to do!”

“Well, we’re lucky so far,” rejoined Alec. “It’s a wonder to me the Old Man didn’t set us on blacking down the rigging.”

“You needn’t wonder any longer, then,” said Brian, as he leant over the side and sprinkled water over the loom of his oar. “I heard Durnford tell the Old Man that if the calm held we were to start on that job directly we got back—the nigger-driver.”

“Keep it up, lads!” urged Alec. “An hour’s the limit.”

“Rather be pulling this boat than slapping tar on the rigging,” declared Curtiss. “How much further, Alec?”

“ ‘Nother half-mile. Put your backs into it, lads.”

As the whaler closed on the object of their investigations, Alec noticed that it was a raft of sorts. Not the generally accepted idea, but a triangular affair, composed of three lengths of massive spars lashed in triangular form, with a piece of lumber of smaller scantling fixed parallel to one side of the triangle. Over this was a rough platform, composed of one large grating and a few planks. A sort of low breastwork had been fixed to the platform, but this had disappeared with the exception of one side. It was this that had prevented Captain McFail from taking a comprehensive view of the raft.

“Way ‘nough!” ordered Alec.

His chums boated their oars. Chris, who had been rowing stroke, went for’ard with the boat-hook. Alec put the helm over. The whaler, describing a graceful curve, ranged alongside the raft. Then, for the first time, the three lads saw what was on the farther side of the projection which had aroused the Old Man’s curiosity.

Lashed to the stump of the shattered mast was what appeared to be the body of a man.