The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “Now, you are not going to put me off like that,” she said, in a resolute tone. “I want the whole story in detail, if you please, sir. Does a second mate say ‘sir’ when he, or she, addresses the first mate?”

  “Not as a rule,” Osmond replied, with a grin.

  “Then I won’t. But I want the story. Now.” Osmond looked uneasily into the delicately fair, slightly freckled face and thought it, with its crown of red-gold hair, the prettiest face that he had ever seen. But it was an uncommonly determined little face, all the same.

  “There really isn’t any story,” he began. But she interrupted sharply:

  “Now listen to me. Yesterday there were seven ferocious men going about this ship like roaring and swearing lions. Today there are six meek and rather sleepy lambs—I saw them just before breakfast. It is you who have produced this miraculous change, and I want to know how you did it. No sketchy evasions, you know. I want a clear, intelligible narrative.”

  “It isn’t a very suitable occasion for a long yarn,” he objected. “Don’t you think we ought to go on deck and keep an eye on the old man?”

  “Perhaps we ought,” she agreed. “But I’m not going to let you off the story, you know. That is understood, isn’t it?”

  He gave a reluctant assent, and when she had fetched her pith helmet from her cabin and he had borrowed a Panama hat of Redford’s, they ascended together to the deck.

  The scene was reminiscent of ‘The Ancient Mariner.’ The blazing sun shone down on a sea that seemed to be composed of oil, so smooth and unruffled was its surface. The air was absolutely still, and the old brigantine wallowed foolishly as the great, glassy rollers swept under her, her sails alternately filling and backing with loud, explosive flaps as the masts swung from side to side, and her long main-boom banging across with a heavy jar at each roll. Sam Winter stood at the wheel in a posture of easy negligence (but he straightened up with a jerk as Osmond’s head rose out of the companion-hood); the rest of the crew, excepting Jim Darker, lounged about drowsily forward; and the skipper appeared to be doing sentry-go before a row of green gin-cases that were ranged along the side of the caboose. He looked round as the newcomers arrived on deck, and pointing to the cases, addressed Osmond.

  “These boxes of poison belong to you, I understand. I can’t have them lying about here.”

  “Better stow them in the lazarette when I’ve checked the contents,” replied Osmond.

  “I can’t have intoxicating liquors in my lazarette. This is a temperance ship. I’ve a good mind to chuck ’em overboard.”

  “All right,” said Osmond. “You pay me one pound four, and then you can do what you like with them.”

  “Pay!” shrieked the captain. “I pay for this devil’s elixir! I traffic in strong drink that steals away men’s reason and turns them into fiends! Never! Not a farthing!”

  “Very well,” said Osmond, “then they had better go below. Here, you, Simmons and Bradley, bear a hand with those cases. Will you see them stowed away in the lazarette, Miss Burleigh?”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the latter replied, touching her helmet smartly; whereupon the two men, with delighted grins, pounced upon two of the cases, while Miss Burleigh edged up close to Osmond.

  “What on earth is the lazarette?” she whispered, “and where shall I find it?”

  “Under the cuddy floor,” he whispered in reply. “The trap is under the table.”

  As the two seamen picked up their respective loads and went off beaming, followed by Miss Burleigh, the captain stood gazing open-mouthed. “Well, I’m—I’m—sure!” he exclaimed, at length. “What do you mean by giving orders to my crew? And I said I wouldn’t have that gin in my lazarette.”

  “Can’t leave it about for the men to pinch. You’ll have them all drunk again. And what about the watches? We can’t have the regular port and starboard watches until you are fit again. Better do as I suggested. Let me keep on deck during the night, and you take charge during the day. Miss Burleigh can relieve you if you want to go below.”

  “I’ll have no women playing the fool on my ship,” snapped the skipper; “but as to you, I don’t mind your staying on deck at night if you undertake to call me up when you get into a mess—as you certainly will.”

  “Very well,” said Osmond, “we’ll leave it at that. And now you’d better come below and let me attend to your bandages. There’s nothing to do on deck while this calm lasts.”

  The skipper complied, not unwillingly; and when Osmond had very gently and skilfully renewed the dressings and rebandaged the injured arm and head—the captain reclining in his bunk for the purpose—he retired, leaving his patient to rest awhile with the aid of the Commentary On the Book of Job.

  As soon as he arrived on deck, he proceeded definitely to take charge. The stowage of the gin was now completed and the crew were once more collected forward, gossiping idly but evidently watchful and expectant of further developments from the ‘after-guard.’ Osmond hailed them in a masterful tone. “Here, you men, get a pull on the main-sheet and stop the boom from slamming. Haul her in as taut as she’ll go.”

  The men came aft with ready cheerfulness, and as Osmond cast off the fall of the rope and gave them a lead, they tailed on and hauled with a will until the sheet-blocks were as close as they could be brought. Then, when the rope had been belayed, Osmond turned to the crew and briefly explained the arrangements for working the ship in her present, short-handed state.

  “So you understand,” he concluded, “I am the mate for the time being, and Miss Burleigh is taking the duties of the second mate. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” was the reply, accompanied by the broadest of grins, “we understands, sir.”

  “Who is the cook?” inquired Osmond.

  “Bill Foat ’as been a-doin’ the cookin’, sir,” Simmons explained.

  “Then he’d better get on with it. Whose watch on deck is it?”

  “Starboard watch, sir,” replied Simmons; “that’s me and Winter and Darker.”

  “I must have a look at Darker,” said Osmond. “Meanwhile you take the wheel, and you, Winter, keep a lookout forward. I haven’t heard the ship’s bell sounded this morning.”

  “No, sir,” Winter explained. “The clock in the companion has stopped and none of us haven’t got the time.”

  “Very well,” said Osmond. “I’ll wind it up and start it when I make eight bells.”

  The routine of the duties being thus set going, Osmond went forward and paid a visit to the invalid in the forecastle, with the result that Jim Darker presently appeared on deck with a clean bandage and a somewhat sheepish grin. Then the chief officer turned his attention to the education of his subordinate, observed intently by six pairs of inquisitive eyes.

  “I think, Miss Burleigh,” he said, “you had better begin by learning how to take an observation. Then you will be able to do something that the men can’t, as an officer should. Do you know anything about mathematics?”

  “As much as is necessary, I expect. I took second class honours in maths. Will that do?”

  “Of course it will. By the way, where did you take your degree?”

  Oxford—Somerville, you know.”

  “Oh,” said Osmond, rather taken aback. “When were you up at Oxford?”

  She regarded him with a mischievous smile as she replied: “After your time, I should say. I only came down a year ago.”

  It was, of course, but a chance shot. Nevertheless, Osmond hastily reverted to the subject of observations. “It is quite a simple matter to take the altitude of the sun, and you work out your results almost entirely from tables. You will do it easily the first time. I’ll go and get Redford’s sextant, or better still, we might go below and I can show you how to use a sextant and how to work out your latitude.”

  “Yes,” she agreed eagerly, “I would sooner have my first lesson below. Our friends here are so very interested in us.”

  She bustled away down to the cabin, and Osmond,
following, went into his berth, whence he presently emerged with two mahogany cases and a portly volume, inscribed ‘Norie’s Navigation.’

  “I’ve found the second mate’s sextant as well as Redford’s, so we can have one each,” he said, laying them on the table with the volume. “And now let us get to work. We mustn’t stay here too long or we shall miss the transit.”

  The two mates seated themselves side by side at the table, and Osmond, taking one of the sextants out of its case, explained its construction and demonstrated its use. Then the volume was opened, the tables explained, the mysteries of ‘dip’ refraction and ‘parallax’ expounded, and finally an imaginary observation was worked out on the back of an envelope.

  “I had no idea,” said Miss Burleigh, as she triumphantly finished the calculation, “that the science of navigation was so simple.”

  “It isn’t,” replied Osmond. “Latitude by the meridian altitude of the sun is the A B C of navigation. Some of it, such as longitude by lunar distance, is fairly tough. But it is time we got on deck. It is past eleven by my watch and the Lord knows what the time actually is. The chronometer has stopped. The skipper bumped against it when he staggered into his berth on the day when the mutiny broke out.”

  “Then how shall we get the longitude?” Miss Burleigh asked.

  “We shan’t. But it doesn’t matter much. We must keep on a westerly course. There is nothing, in that direction, between us and America.”

  The appearance on deck of the two officers, each armed with a sextant, created a profound impression. It is true that, so far as the ‘second mate’ was concerned, the attitude of the crew was merely that of respectful amusement. But the effect, in the case of Osmond, was very different. The evidence that he was able to ‘shoot the sun’ established him in their eyes as a pukka navigator, and added to the awe with which they regarded this uncannily capable ‘factory bug.’ And there was plenty of time for the impression to soak in; for the first glance through the sextant showed that the sun was still rising fairly fast; that there was yet some considerable time to run before noon. In fact, more than half an hour passed before the retardation of the sun’s motion heralded the critical phase. And at this moment the skipper’s head rose slowly above the hood of the companion-hatch.

  At first his back was towards the observers, but when he emerged and, turning forward, became aware of them, he stopped short as if petrified. The men ceased their gossip to watch him with ecstatic grins, and Sam Winter edged stealthily towards the ship’s bell.

  “What is the meaning of this play-acting and tom foolery?” the skipper demanded, sourly. “Women and landsmen monkeying about with nautical instruments.”

  Osmond held up an admonitory hand, keeping his eye glued to the eyepiece of the sextant.

  “I’m asking you a question,” the captain persisted. There was another brief silence. Then, suddenly, Osmond sang out “Eight bells!” and looked at his watch. Winter, seizing the lanyard that hung from the clapper of the bell, struck the eight strokes, and the second mate—prompted in a hoarse whisper—called out: “Port watch, there! Bradley will take the first trick at the wheel.”

  “Aye, aye, sir—Miss, I means,” responded Bradley, and proceeded purple-faced and chuckling aloud, to relieve the gratified Simmons.

  At these proceedings the captain looked on in helpless bewilderment. He watched Osmond wind and set the clock in the companion and saw him disappear below, followed by his accomplice, to work out the reckoning, and shook his head with mute disapproval. But yet to him, as to the rest of the ship’s company, there came a certain sense of relief. Osmond’s brisk, confident voice, the cheerful sound of the ship’s bell, and the orderly setting of the watch, seemed definitely to mark the end of the mutiny and the return to a reign of law and order.

  CHAPTER VI

  BETTY MAKES A DISCOVERY

  For reasons best known to herself, Miss Burleigh made no further attempt that day to satisfy her curiosity as to the quelling of the mutiny. There was, in fact, little opportunity. For shortly after the mid-day meal—sea-pie and corned pork with biscuit—Osmond turned in regardless of the heat, to get a few hours’ sleep before beginning his long night vigil. But on the following day the captain was so far recovered as to be able to take the alternate watches—relieved to some extent in the daytime by the second mate—and this left ample time for Osmond to continue the education of his junior, which now extended from theoretical navigation to practical seamanship.

  It was during the afternoon watch, when the two mates were seated on a couple of spare cases in the shadow of the main-sail, practising the working of splices on some oddments of rope, that the ‘examination-in-chief’ began; and Osmond, recognizing the hopelessness of further evasion, was fain to tell the story of his adventure, dryly enough, indeed, but in fairly satisfying detail. And as he narrated, in jerky, colourless sentences, with his eyes riveted on the splice that he was working, his spellbound listener let her rope’s-end and marlinspike lie idle on her lap while she watched his impassive face with something more than mere attention.

  “I wonder,” she said when the tale was told, “whether the men realize who the spectre mate really was.”

  “I don’t think they can quite make out what happened. But I fancy they look upon me as something rather uncanny; which is all for the best, seeing how short we are and what a helpless worm the skipper is.”

  “Yes, they certainly have a holy fear of you,” she agreed, smiling at the grim, preoccupied face. She reflected awhile and then continued: “But I don’t quite understand what brought you on board. You say that Dhoody had stolen those cases of gin. But what business was that of yours?”

  “It was my gin.”

  “Your gin? But you don’t drink gin.”

  “No, I sell it. I am a trader. I run a store, or factory, as they call it out here.”

  As Osmond made this statement, her look of undisguised admiration changed to one of amazement. She smothered an exclamation and managed to convert it at short notice into an unconcerned “I see,” but her astonishment extinguished her powers of conversation for the time being. She could only gaze at him and marvel at the incongruity of his personality with his vocation. She had encountered a good many traders, and though she had realized that the ‘palm-oil ruffian’ was largely the invention of the missionary and the official snob and that West African traders are a singularly heterogeneous body, still that body did not ordinarily include men of Osmond’s class. And her sly suggestion of his connection with Oxford had been something more than a mere random shot. There are certain little tricks of speech and manner by which members of the ancient universities can usually be recognized, especially by their contemporaries and though Osmond was entirely free from the deliberate affectations of a certain type of ‘’varsity’ man, her quick ear had detected one or two turns of phrase that seemed familiar. And he had not repudiated the suggestion.

  “I wonder,” she said, after an interval of some what uncomfortable silence, “what made you take to trading. The métier doesn’t seem to fit you very well.”

  “No,” he admitted with a grim smile; “I am a bit of a mug at a business deal.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” she rejoined hastily. “But there are such a lot of things that would suit you better. It is a sin for a man of your class and attainments to be keeping a shop—for that is what it amounts to.”

  “That is what it actually is,” said he.

  “Yes. But why on earth do you do it?”

  “Must do something, you know,” he replied, lamely.

  “Of course you must, but it should be something suitable, and selling gin is not a suitable occupation for a gentleman. And it isn’t as if you were a ‘lost dog.’ You are really extremely capable.”

  “Yes,” he admitted with a grin, “I’m pretty handy in a scrum.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she admonished, severely. “I don’t undervalue your courage and strength—I shouldn’t be a natural woman if I d
id—but I am thinking of your resourcefulness and ingenuity. It wasn’t by mere thumping that you got your ascendancy over the men. You beat them by sheer brains.”

  “Jim Darker thinks it was an iron belaying-pin.”

  “Now don’t quibble and prevaricate. You know as well as I do that, if it had been a matter of mere strength and courage, you would never have got out of the hold, and we should have been at the bottom of the sea by now. It was your mental alertness that saved us all.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Osmond. “But you aren’t getting on very fast with that splice. Have you been watching me?”

  “Oh! bother the splices!” she exclaimed, impatiently. “I want you to tell me why you are throwing yourself away on this ridiculous factory.”

  “It isn’t a bad sort of life,” he protested. “I don’t think I mind it.”

  “Then you ought to,” she retorted. “You ought to have some ambition. Think of all the things that you might have done—that you still might do with, your abilities and initiative.”

  She looked at him earnestly as she spoke; and some thing that she saw in his face as she uttered those last words gave her pause. Suddenly it was borne in on her that she had met other men who seemed to be out of their element; men who, report whispered, had been driven by social misadventure—by debt, entanglements, or drink—to seek sanctuary on the remote West Coast. Was it possible that he might be one of these refugees? He was obviously not a drinker and he did not look like a wastrel of any kind. Still, there might be a skeleton in his cupboard. At any rate, he was extraordinarily reticent about himself.

  She changed the subject rather abruptly. “Is your factory in the British Protectorate?”

  “Yes. At Adaffia, a little, out-of-the-way place about a dozen miles east of Quittah.”

  “I know it—at least I have heard of it. Isn’t it the place where that poor fellow Osmond died?”

  “Yes,” he replied, a little startled by the question.

  “What was he like? I suppose you saw him?”