Читать книгу The Third Officer: A Present-day Pirate Story - Westerman Percy Francis - Страница 2

At daybreak, in a strong off-shore wind, thick with snow, the S.S. Donibristle cast off and proceeded on her voyage. By noon, working up to eleven knots, she had passed through the broad strait of San Juan de Fuca – the waterway between Vancouver Island and the Federal State of Washington – and was rolling heavily in the following seas.

During his watch on the bridge Alwyn Burgoyne saw nothing of the passengers. Certainly it was not the kind of weather in which landsmen venture on deck. The whole aspect was a study in greys. The sea, as far as the driving snow permitted to be seen, was a waste of leaden-coloured waves flecked with tumbling grey crests. Overhead a watery sun almost failed to make its presence known through the sombre swiftly-moving clouds. Everything on deck was snow-covered, while wisps of steam mingled with an eddying volume of smoke from the salt-rimed funnels.

Crouched in the bows was the motionless figure of the look-out man, peering intently through the flurry of snow-flakes, and ready at the first sign of another craft to hail the bridge, where, always within easy distance of the engine-room telegraph, Burgoyne paced ceaselessly to and fro. For the time being the safety of the ship and all who sailed in her depended upon his judgment. An error on his part or even hesitation in carrying out the "Rules and Regulations for Preventing Collisions at Sea" might easily result in an appalling catastrophe.

Twice during his watch Alwyn had to alter course. Once to avoid a topsail schooner that suddenly loomed up, grotesquely distorted through the snow, at a distance of two cables on the starboard bow. The second occasion was called for by the sighting of a derelict – a timber-ship dismasted and floating just awash. A startled shout from the look-out man, a crisp order from the Third Officer, and the Donibristle, heeling under the effect of helm hard over, literally scraped past the waterlogged craft.

Five minutes later, Mostyn, the wireless operator, was sending out a general warning to the effect that at such and such a time, and in latitude and longitude so and so, the S.S. Donibristle had sighted a derelict highly dangerous to navigation.

At last, just as the sun was breaking through and the snow-storm had passed, Burgoyne's relief ascended the bridge ladder. Alwyn, having "handed over", went below, ate a hearty meal, and, relieved of all responsibility for the time being, turned in with the knowledge that before he took on again the Donibristle would be in a distinctly warmer climate.

He saw nothing of the passengers that evening. Their places at dinner were vacant. According to the steward, Mr. Tarrant was just able to sit up and take nourishment; while Mr. Miles, the Canadian commercial traveller, in a valiant attempt to ward off the dreaded mal de mer, had resorted to certain drugs from his sample case, and was now under the care of the steward. Colonel Vivian was attending to his wife, who was obliged to keep to her cabin, while he and his daughter for some unexplained reason were having dinner in the latter's state room.

At noon on the following day Burgoyne, having "shot the sun" and worked out the ship's position, was considerably astonished to see Hilda Vivian mounting the bridge with the utmost sang-froid.

"Good morning, Mr. Burgoyne!" she exclaimed; "or is it good afternoon? Quite warm, isn't it? A delightful change from yesterday. I've come to have a look round."

"I'm afraid I must tell you that you are trespassing, Miss Vivian," said Alwyn. "No passengers are allowed on the bridge, you know."

Hilda Vivian's eyes sparkled with ill-concealed mirth.

"That was what my father said," she rejoined. "I had a small bet with him on it. I've won, you see."

"But I can't let you – " began Burgoyne. "Company's regulations and all that sort of thing, you know."

"Supposing I refuse to go?" she inquired archly.

Alwyn pondered. It promised to be a tough proposition. He rather wondered what the Old Man would say to him if he happened to come on deck and espy a passenger – a lady passenger, and a young and pretty one at that – standing apparently without let or hindrance upon the bridge.

His colour deepened under his tan as he replied:

"You'll be getting me into a jolly hole if you persist."

It was a lame thing to say, he reflected. After all it seemed a bit futile to have to put forward an individual case to support the rights of deck-officers.

"I wouldn't do that," replied the girl earnestly. "It's all right. I asked Captain Blair, and he said I'd find somebody up here to show me round."

"Right-o," said Burgoyne, not at all sorry to have the opportunity. "But excuse me a moment while I finish working out our position."

He retired to the chart-house and shut the door, having first asked the quartermaster to show the compass and steam steering-gear to the passenger. He counted on a long and highly technical explanation from the old seaman, and in this he was not mistaken.

Alwyn used the respite profitably. He made no attempt to check his figures; that was a mere excuse. Taking up the telephone, he rang up the Captain's cabin. A brief conversation confirmed Miss Vivian's statement, not that he doubted her word, but it was desirable to obtain the Old Man's sanction.

"That leaves me a comparatively free hand," soliloquized the Third Officer, as he replaced the receiver. "There are worse ways of taking a trick than being in the company of a jolly girl."

Jolly she undoubtedly was. Without an atom of side, and utterly devoid of any trace of self-consciousness, Hilda Vivian was decidedly practical without sacrificing her femininity.

Burgoyne's watch passed only too quickly. The girl was a good conversationalist and a splendid listener. Without betraying the faintest sign of boredom she followed the Third Officer's somewhat stereotyped explanations of the various devices upon which the modern navigator depends in order to take his ship, with uncanny accuracy, across thousands of miles of trackless ocean.

And then conversation drifted into other channels. Hilda explained her presence on board. She was an only daughter; her brother had been wounded and missing at Messines, and her mother had never properly recovered from the shock. Colonel Vivian had been in command of a battalion in Egypt and Palestine, and on the homeward voyage the transport had been mined off Cape de Gata, in the course of which he had received an injury to his thigh that had incapacitated him from further active service.

"I know that bit," said Alwyn to himself. He felt pretty certain of it from the moment he saw the colonel board the Donibristle at Vancouver; but now there was no doubt on the matter. He made no audible remark, but allowed his fair companion to "carry on".

After the Armistice Colonel Vivian went on the retired list. He was not a rich man, having little means beyond his pension; and specialists' fees incurred by his wife's illness made a heavy drain upon the colonel's exchequer. One specialist expressed his opinion that the only thing likely to benefit Mrs. Vivian was a voyage round the world. Making sacrifices, Colonel Vivian was now engaged upon the protracted tour, taking passages in cargo-boats with limited accommodation in order to cut down expenses, and prolong the "rest cure" by breaking the voyage in various ports.

"I think the voyage is doing Mother good," continued the girl, "and I am enjoying it – every minute in fact. But I do wish I could have brought Peter – "

"And who is Peter?" asked Burgoyne, so abruptly that he could have bitten his tongue for having shown such a lively interest – or was it resentment? – towards Peter.

"He's simply a dear," replied Hilda. "A sheep-dog, you know. Of course, it was impossible to bring him, owing to quarantine restrictions and all that sort of thing, so we had to leave him with friends. Are you fond of dogs, Mr. Burgoyne?"

"Beagles," said Alwyn. "Hadn't much time for a dog of my own. We ran a pack of beagles at Dartmouth. Ripping sport."

"Were you at Dartmouth then?" asked Miss Vivian. "At the College?"

Burgoyne nodded.

"Then you were in the navy?"

"Yes," replied the Third Officer. "In the pukka Royal Navy. I came out some months ago, worse luck. But," he added, loyal to his present employers, "this line isn't half-bad – rather decent, in fact."

Miss Vivian made no audible comment. Burgoyne had apparently failed to arouse a sympathetic interest in his case. He felt himself wondering whether she would jump to the conclusion that he was a rotter who had been ignominiously court-martialled and dismissed the Service. But, before he could enlarge upon that particular point, Hilda steered the conversation into other channels until Phil Branscombe's arrival on the bridge brought Burgoyne's trick to a close.

"My relief," announced Alwyn.

Hilda made no attempt to leave the bridge. Branscombe smiled.

"I'm off duty," persisted the Third Officer. "Would you care to see our wireless cabin? It's a perfectly priceless stunt, and Mostyn, our budding Marconi, is quite harmless while under observation."

"Thanks," replied the girl calmly. "Another day perhaps; when it's not so fine. I'll stay here a little longer; I am interested to know what Mr. Branscombe did in the Great War."

Burgoyne accepted his dismissal with the best grace at his command. He had a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing that Miss Vivian had heard of a joke at the Fourth Officer's expense, although she may not have known the actual facts.

Phil Branscombe had been appointed midshipman, R.N.V.R., a fortnight previous to the signing of the Armistice, although it wasn't his fault that he hadn't been so earlier. Consequently by the time he joined his M. – L. in a Western port hostilities were at an end. One evening towards the end of November the commander of the M. – L. flotilla was dozing in his cabin, when certain of the younger officers thought it would be a huge joke to pour pyrene down the stove-pipe and put out the fire in the Senior Officer's cabin. Stealthily they emptied the contents of the extinguisher and beat a retreat, chuckling at the mental picture of the commander's discomfiture when he awoke to find that the stove had gone out and himself shivering in the cold cabin.

Twenty minutes later a signalman conveying a message to the commander found him unconscious. The oxygen-destroying properties of the pyrene had not only extinguished the fire, but had been within an ace of suffocating the occupant of the cabin. Fortunately the commander recovered. The culprits were discovered, but their victim, convinced that it had not been their intention to drive matters to extremes, accepted their apologies and regrets. But the case did not end there. The Admiralty got to hear of it, and Branscombe and two of his fellow-midshipmen were summarily dismissed.

"That's what I did in the Great War, Miss Vivian," said Branscombe at the end of his recital. "You see, I wasn't one of the lucky ones. This ship saw some service. She was armed with six 4.7's, and made fourteen double trips across the Atlantic. Angus, our Chief Engineer, was on board her part of the time. He might tell you some yarns if you get the right side of him. Once we had some Yanks on board, and one of them asked him the same question that you asked me about what he did in the Great War. Angus simply looked straight at him. 'Ma bit', he replied."

"The Donibristle hasn't guns on board now, I suppose?" inquired the girl.

"No," replied Branscombe. There was a note of regret in his voice. "The Merchant Service doesn't want guns nowadays. I can show you where the decks were strengthened to take the mountings. No, there's no need for guns on this hooker."

But Fourth Officer Philip Branscombe was a bit out in his reckoning.

Meanwhile, as Burgoyne was making his way aft, he encountered Colonel Vivian laboriously climbing the companion-ladder.

"Thanks, Mr. Burgoyne," exclaimed the colonel, as the Third Officer stood aside to allow him to pass. "By the by, are you any relation to Major Burgoyne of the Loamshires?"

"My uncle," replied Alwyn.

"Then I must have met you at Cheltenham," resumed Colonel Vivian. "Several times I thought I'd seen your face before."

Burgoyne shook his head.

"I haven't been in Cheltenham since I was twelve," he replied, "but I have an idea that I've seen you before, sir."

"Oh, where?"

"To the best of my belief about twelve miles sou'-sou'-west of Cape de Gata. You were wearing pale blue pyjamas and a wristlet watch. When we hiked you out of the ditch you were holding up a Tommy who couldn't swim, and – "

"By Jove! I remember you now," interrupted the Colonel. "You were in charge of one of the Pylon's boats. But I thought you were a midshipman R.N."

"I was," agreed Burgoyne. "I had to resign under the reduction of naval personnel stunt. And, by the by, sir, Miss Vivian asked me to tell you that she had been on the bridge for – " he glanced at his watch, "for the last three and a half hours."