The Wireless Officer

by Percy F. Westerman

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  How the Steelwork Arrived

  There was no doubt about it: Mr. Benjamin Skeets was a very craftyfellow. By adopting the disguise of a woman, and acting up to the partof a vulgar parvenue, he had completely covered his tracks, and hadthrown dust into the eyes of everyone with whom he had come incontact--up to a certain point and then only with one exception.

  Messrs. Skeets and Shale were no mere novices in crime, and theirdaring _coup_ of defrauding the United Trusts Banking Company of theround sum of L30,000, and their subsequent disappearance, had bothmystified and astonished the British public by its audacity, and hadcompletely baffled the greatest detective experts of Scotland Yard.

  Skeets had lived up to his disguise very thoroughly. Even thesubsequent engagement of Miss Olive Baird had been undertaken solelywith the idea of elaborating the smaller but by no means unnecessarydetails of his disguise. Since there was no reliable description ofMr. Joseph Shales, who was the unseen partner in the deal with thebanking firm, it was a fairly simple matter for him to get out of thecountry under the guise of the husband of "Mrs. Shallop".

  It had been the intention of the precious pair to leave the _WestBarbican_ at Cape Town; hence Mrs. Shallop's anxiety to get a wirelessmessage through as soon as the ship came within radio range of TableBay. But the absence of a reply from Skeets's confederate at Cape Townhad so startled the fugitives that they decided to go on until theyfound a convenient port, preferably in India, where they could lie lowand live on their ill-gotten plunder.

  The foundering of the _West Barbican_ had upset their calculations.Practically the whole of the pair's booty went down with the ship. Mr.Shallop, otherwise Shales, having no further use for his destitutepartner, went off in one of the ship's boats which was eventuallypicked up. Arriving at Cape Town he took the ill-advised step oflooking-up a pal. The latter was already languishing in a SouthAfrican penal establishment, and Mr. Shales, upon making inquiries, wasenlightened by an acquaintance of the convict, who chanced to be anastute detective.

  The outcome of this meeting was that Mr. Shallop, under the mellowinfluence of strong waters, said more than he would have done had hebeen in his sober senses. Recovering from his maudlin state he foundhimself in custody.

  Having no belief in the worn proverb concerning honour amongst thieves,and perhaps fully convinced that his partner in crime had been lost inthe disaster to the _West Barbican_, Joseph Shales confessed to a minorpart in the United Trusts Bank frauds, at the same time laying theblame upon the missing Benjamin Skeets.

  The immediate result was that directly the news was cabled that moresurvivors from the _West Barbican_, including Mrs. Shallop, had beenlanded at Pangawani, the Kilba Protectorate Police were instructed toarrest the much-wanted Benjamin.

  Before Mostyn left to go on board the _Quilboma_ he had an opportunityof saying farewell to Olive, and at the same time telling her of theastounding news.

  "And to think that she--or, rather, he--bluffed the whole jolly lot ofus," he added. "Even the Old Man and Doctor Selwyn were taken incompletely."

  "Not all of us, Peter," rejoined the girl softly. "I knew--but not atfirst."

  "By Jove!" ejaculated the astonished Mostyn. "You did? When did you?"

  "Not until the _West Barbican_ was sinking," replied Olive. "I foundit out then: I couldn't help it. Of course, I didn't know exactly whatto do, and I knew nothing whatever of the crime she--I mean, he--hadcommitted. But I meant to tell you some day, Peter."

  "We are well rid of him," remarked Mostyn.

  "Yes," agreed the girl thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, she addedfrankly. "But if it had not been for Mrs. Shallop I might never havemet you, Peter."

  Mostyn departed radiantly upon the voyage on which depended the fate ofthe Brocklington Ironworks Company's contract.

  It was not until the day following that Davis, in his officialcapacity, completed the inspection of the dhow. When he came to knockoff the lid of the box in which Mostyn had nailed up the gold andsilver coins, he found that, although the seals were intact, the moneyhad vanished.

  Davis gave a low whistle.

  "That stuff's been lifted before the dhow put into Pangawani," hedeclared to his assistant. "The seals being intact proves that."

  His companion laughed.

  "After sneaking L30,000 friend Skeets wouldn't scruple to lift thatlittle lot," he remarked.

  "S'pose so," conceded Davis. "We'll go and report the loss; but I'mafraid that Mrs. Shallop has got well away with it this time."

  Which was exactly what had happened. As far as the authorities atPangawani were concerned Benjamin Skeets had vanished, seemingly intothin air. Although the daily train from Pangawani up-country had beenrigorously searched at every intermediate station, soon after theflight of the much wanted man was made known, no one unable to give agood account of himself or herself had been discovered. With theexception of the _Quilboma_ no vessel had left the port during theprevious twenty-four hours. Native police and trackers had scoured thebush for miles in the vicinity of Pangawani without picking up anytraces of the fugitive.

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile Peter Mostyn was speeding south on board the S.S. _Quilboma_.From the moment the harbour launch had placed him on the deck of thetramp outside Pangawani bar, he was entirely cut off from news of therest of the world. The _Quilboma_ was not fitted with wireless, herowners, since the relaxation of Board of Trade regulations on thetermination of the war, having dispensed with what they considered tobe an unprofitable, expensive, and unnecessary outfit.

  The tramp was only of 1500 tons gross register, and with a speed ofnine knots. Her engines were of an antiquated, reciprocating type,while her coal consumption was out of all proportion to her carryingcapacity. Had she been plying in home waters she would never havepassed the official re-survey; consequently her owners, one of whom washer skipper, took good care to confine the _Quilboma's_ activities tothe Red Sea and Indian Ocean.

  In fine weather, and aided by the current constantly setting southwardthrough the Mozambique Channel, the _Quilboma_ was actually makingbetween eleven and a half and twelve knots "over the ground". Threedays after leaving Pangawani she arrived at the entrance to BulongaHarbour.

  Six hours elapsed before she was berthed alongside the rotting wharf,to dry-out in a bed of noxious mud as the tide left her.

  Mostyn got to work promptly, and with his accustomed enthusiasm. Hehad the good luck to find the Portuguese agent on the spot. Thepreposterous storage charges were discussed, haggled over, and settled;gangs of native workmen were hired, and the task of loading up the_Quilboma_ with her bulky but precious cargo began.

  It was now that Peter met with a sudden and unexpected check, for, oninspecting the metalwork, he found that even in a comparatively shorttime the moist, tropical atmosphere had attacked the steel in spite ofthe coating of oxide it had received before leaving England.

  To deliver it in this state meant a possible, nay, probable rejectionby the consignees; but fortunately the skipper of the _Quilboma_ roseto the occasion.

  "I've a couple o' kegs of oxide aboard," he announced. "Put theniggers on to it, and let 'em give the stuff another coat."

  "Over the rust?" queried the conscientious Peter,

  The Old Man winked solemnly.

  "Who's to know?" he asked. "Paint's like charity: covers a multitudeof defects."

  "That won't do for me," declared Peter. "I'll have every bit of thescale chipped off before the least flick of paint is put on."

  The skipper shrugged his shoulders but refrained from audible comment.Although in his mind he considered his charterer to be a silly youngowl, especially as he was bound to a time limit, he had to confess thatMostyn was doing the right thing.

  It took the native workmen two days of unremitting toil (Peter and thePortuguese agent took care that it was unremitting) to clean thesteelwork and recoat it with oxide. Then the loading commenced
.

  With the perspiration pouring down his face, Mostyn supervised theremoval of the ponderous girders from the enclosure, the Chief Matebeing responsible for the storage of the material in the hold.

  Presently the Old Man, puffing like a grampus, hurried up to Mostyn.

  "Those four long bits won't stow," he announced. "Our main hold ain'tlong enough, not by five feet."

  "Will they stow on deck?" asked Mostyn.

  "And capsize the old hooker in the first bit o' dirty weather we runinto?" rejoined the skipper caustically. "You don't catch me doingthat, my dear sir. We'll have to leave 'em behind, and the _Thylied_can pick 'em up. She's about due to leave Port Elizabeth, and ought tobe here in a week's time."

  "Look here, Skipper," said Peter firmly. "You contracted to bring thisconsignment from Bulonga to Pangawani. I gave you the dimensions ofthe longest girders before we came to terms, and you declared to methat you could stow the whole of the consignment. And you'll have todo it."

  "It ain't a matter of life an' death," expostulated the Old Man. "I'llmake a liberal abatement in the freightage charges and--

  "You won't," declared Mostyn firmly. "You won't, because you've got toship every bit of that steelwork; so get busy."

  The skipper of the _Quilboma_ was one of those easy-going, obligingsort of fellows who can rarely make up their minds and act unlessdominated by a person of strong, individual character. He was inclinedto let things drift, and would assuredly choose the line of leastresistance regardless of the consequences. As a navigator he waspassable; as a seaman he lacked the alertness and decision necessary toshine at his profession. For years he had been in command of the_Quilboma_, and not once in that time had he found himself in a reallytight corner. It was luck--pure luck--which might at a veryinopportune moment let him down very badly.

  "What do you suggest then?" he growled.

  "I suggested deck cargo," replied Peter. "You turned it down. I don'tquestion your authority or your wisdom on that point. The rest is upto you."

  "A' right," rejoined the Old Man. "You just hang on here and keepthese niggers up to scratch. I'll fix it up somehow."

  And "fix it up somehow" he did; for when at sundown Mostyn returned tothe ship he found that the long, heavy girders _were_ stowed. The OldMan had had the bulkhead between the main hold and the boiler-room cutthrough--it did not require much labour, so worn and rusty were thesteel plates of that bulkhead--with the result that one end of each ofthe troublesome girders was within six inches of the for'ard boiler.

  At length the loading-up was completed. Steam was raised in the wheezyboilers; the Portuguese customs officials were "suitably rewarded", andclearance papers obtained; and at four in the afternoon the _Quilboma_crossed the bar of Bulonga Harbour, starboarded helm, and shaped acourse for Pangawani.

  Head winds and an adverse current made a vast difference to the speedof the old tramp. She had taken but three days to run south; five daysstill found her plugging ahead with Pangawani a good fifty miles off.

  The _Quilboma_ was now making bad weather of it. Her foredeck wasconstantly under water, as she pitched and wallowed against the headseas. The glass was falling rapidly. Unless the ship made harbourbefore the threatened storm broke, it would be impossible to cross thebar until the weather moderated.

  The Old Man began to look anxious.

  At midday Peter was with the skipper on the bridge when the ChiefEngineer approached the Old Man.

  "Coal's running low," he reported without any preliminaries.

  "How long can you carry on for, Mr. Jackson?" inquired the captain.

  "For five hours; less maybe," was the reply. "She's simply mopping upcoal on this run. Goodness knows why, 'cause I haven't been pressingher overmuch."

  The Old Man nodded. He quite understood. To run the antiquatedengines at anything approaching full speed ahead might easily result inthe patched-up boilers refusing duty altogether.

  "Five hours'll about do," he declared. "Keep her at it, Mr. Jackson."

  The Chief Engineer departed. He was not so sure that he could "keepher at it". Under normal conditions the coal taken on board atPangawani ought to have been more than enough for the round trip.Unaccountably the consumption was much above the average, with theawkward result that the bunkers were nearly empty.

  "Pangawani ain't Barry Roads," remarked the Old Man to his charterer."There isn't a tug at Pangawani; but I'd bet my bottom dollar that, ifwe were this distance from Cardiff, there'd be a round dozen o' tugsbuzzing round an' clamouring to give us a pluck in. No, laddie, we'llhave to do it on our own, and we'll jolly well do it, too!"

  "Evidently the Old Man's got a 'do or die' spasm," thought Peter,bearing in mind his previous experience with the weak-willed master ofthe S.S. _Quilboma_. "Let's hope it will last."

  By four in the afternoon the Old Man sang to a different tune. The_Quilboma_ was now within ten miles of Pangawani; but so low was thepressure in her steam-gauges that she was making a bare five knots.

  "I'll signal the first old hooker we fall in with and get her to giveus a tow," he decided.

  "Not much chance of sighting a vessel off Pangawani, is there?" askedMostyn.

  "You never know your luck," quoted the Old Man sententiously, as hestared apprehensively at the storm clouds banking up to wind'ard.

  A few minutes later the skipper of the S.S. _Quilboma_ underwentanother change of character.

  He blew the whistle of the engine-room voice-tube.

  "How goes it, Jackson? Last shovelful out of the bunker? How are youoff for oil? Yes, any sort. Fair amount--good. Well, stand by: I'llfix you up."

  The threatening storm had completely roused the Old Man to definite,practical action. He surpassed himself, and, incidentally, surprisedhimself and others into the bargain.

  Shouting to some of the hands he ordered them to bring axes and tosmash up one of the quarter-boats.

  "Don't stand there lookin' into the air," he bawled angrily. "Lay aftand do what you're told. I know what I'm doin'. Carve up that blankboat and pass the dunnage down to the stokehold, and be mighty slickabout it."

  The men, realizing the object of what had previously seemed to be awanton act of destruction, set to work with a will. In a very fewminutes the quarter-davits on the port side were looking very gaunt andforlorn, while a good five hundredweights of wood soaked in crude oilhelped to feed the ravenous furnaces.

  Half an hour later another boat shared the fate of the first, while, inaddition, the crew collected various inflammable gear and passed itbelow, where sweating firemen threw the impromptu fuel into thefurnaces. Bales of cotton waste soaked in oil were added to leaven thewhole lump, until the _Quilboma's_ stumpy, salt-rimed funnel threw outvolumes of smoke that spread for miles astern like a grimy,evil-smelling pall.

  The _Quilboma_ was now within sight of her goal. Broad on the port bowcould be discerned the long, low beach fringed with a quavering line ofmilk-white foam and backed by the waving coco-palms and the picturesquebungalows of Kilba's principal port.

  "How long will that little lot last you, Mr. Jackson?" inquired the OldMan per voice-tube. "Forty minutes? Ay, I'll see to that."

  He pointed to one of the lifeboats. The deck-hands, grasping thesignificance of this display of dumb-show, threw themselves upon theboat. Axes gleamed and fell with a succession of mingled thuds andcrashes. Planks, timbers, knees, breast-hooks, thwarts, masts, andoars--all went below to the still insatiable maw of the devouringelement.

  The skipper of the _Quilboma_ made no attempt to signal for a pilot.For one reason, he knew the dangerous entrance intimately; for another,it was doubtful whether the pilot could come out and board the vessel.Yet another: the ship could not afford to wait, with her steam pressurefalling and the storm perilously close.

  "Starboard--meet her--at that--steady!"

  The skipper, standing beside the two quartermasters at the helm, wasabout to take his sorely tried craft over the dangerous b
ar. Itrequired pluck, but there was no option if she were to make port atall. It had to be now or never, for, if the _Quilboma_ failed to makethe bar, she would either be dashed to pieces on the reef or drifthelplessly at the mercy of the gale.

  With the wind now broad on the starboard beam the old tramp rolledhorribly. Peter, hanging on to the bridge-rail, fancied that everypiece of steelwork in the hold had broken adrift. Groaning, thudding,quivering, swept by sheets of blinding spray, the _Quilboma_ staggeredtowards the danger-zone. At one moment her propeller was almost clearof the water; at the next the labouring engines seemed to be pulled up,as the madly racing blades sank deep beneath the surface of thebroiling sea.

  Now she was in the thick of it. Tossed about like a cork, wallowinglike a barrel, the old tramp was almost unmanageable. One of thequartermasters was juggling with the wheel of the steam steering-gearlike a man possessed, as he strove to keep the old hooker on hercourse. To port and starboard the ugly reef was showing its teeth, asthe remorseless breakers crashed and receded with a continual roar ofthunder.

  Suddenly a thud, different from the rest of the hideous noises, shookthe ship from stem to stern. For a moment--to Peter the pause seemedinterminable--she seemed to hang up. Then, with a sickening, sidewayslurch she dragged over the hard sand into the comparatively deep andsheltered waters beyond.

  "Done it, by Jove!" exclaimed the Old Man, as he rang down forhalf-speed ahead. "We're in."

  But he was trembling like a person in a fit.

  Twenty minutes later the S.S. _Quilboma_ berthed alongside the quay.The order to draw fires was a superfluous one. The furnaces had burnedthemselves out.