To the accompaniment of a pungent whiff of hot oil, a miniature cascade of coal dust and frozen snow, and the rasping sound of the derrick chain, the last of the cargo for No. 3 hold of the S.S. Donibristle bumped heavily upon the mountain of crates that almost filled the dark confined space.
"Guess that's the lot, boss," observed the foreman stevedore.
"Thanks be!" ejaculated Alwyn Burgoyne, third officer of the 6200-ton tramp, making a cryptic notation in the "hold-book". "Right-o; all shipshape there? All hands on deck and get those hatches secured. Look lively lads!"
Burgoyne waited until the last of the working party had left the hold, then, clambering over a triple tier of closely-stowed packing-cases, he grasped the coaming of the hatch and with a spring gained the deck.
"What a change from Andrew!" he soliloquized grimly, as he surveyed the grimy, rusty iron deck and the welter of coal-dust and snow trampled into a black slime. "All in a day's work, I suppose, and thank goodness I'm afloat."
Three months previously Alwyn Burgoyne had been a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy; hence his reference to "Andrew", as the Senior Service is frequently designated by long-suffering bluejackets. Under peace conditions and in the knowledge that the greatest menace with which the British Empire was ever threatened was removed for all time, the Admiralty were compelled to make drastic reductions both in personnel and material. Numbers of promising young officers, trained from boyhood to the manners and customs of ships flying the White Ensign, had been "sent to the beach", or, in other words, their services had been dispensed with. Even the sum of money paid to these unfortunates was a sorry recompense for their blighted careers, since circumstances and the fact that they were of an awkward age to embark upon another profession were a severe handicap in life's race.
Burgoyne, however, was one of the luckier ones. Forsaking the lure of gunnery, torpedo, and engineering, he was specializing in navigation and seamanship when the "cut" came. Without loss of time he had sat for and obtained first a Mate's and then a Master's Board of Trade Certificate, and with these qualifications, aided by a certain amount of influence, he obtained the post of Fourth Officer in the British Columbian and Chinese Shipping Company.
On his first voyage in the S.S. Donibristle, from Vancouver to Shanghai, Burgoyne gained a step in promotion. Viewed from a certain point it was a regrettable promotion, since Alwyn had to step into a dead man's shoes. But Roberts, the Third Officer, disappeared on the homeward run—it was a pitch-dark night, and a heavy beam sea, and no one saw him go—and Burgoyne "took on" as Third.
To fill the vacant post, Phil Branscombe, a Devonshire lad who had come into the British Columbian and Chinese Shipping Company via a wind-jammer and a Barry collier, was appointed as Fourth Officer, and Branscombe was now about to start on his first voyage under the B.C. & C.S.C. house-flag.
The Donibristle was lying at Vancouver. She had been bunkered with Nanaimo coal; the last of her cargo—mostly Canadian ironmongery and machinery—was under hatches, and she was due to sail at daybreak.
"Cheerio, old thing!" exclaimed Branscombe as Burgoyne made his way aft, his india-rubber sea-boots slithering and squelching on the slush-covered deck. "All stowed? Good, same here. How about tea?"
As the chums made their way towards the companion, their attention was attracted by the arrival of three people who were on the point of stepping off the gangway, where the First Officer stood ready to receive them.
One was a middle-aged gentleman of a decidedly military bearing, obvious in spite of the fact that he wore a heavy greatcoat with turned-up fur collar. Clinging to his arm—a necessary precaution in view of the slippery state of the deck—was a lady, evidently his wife. The third member of the party, disdaining any extraneous support either animate or inanimate, was a girl of about nineteen or twenty. She wore a long fur travelling coat, a close-fitting velour hat, and thick fur gloves that reached almost to her elbows. As her collar was turned up, there was little of her profile visible, but what there was was enough to proclaim her to be a very good-looking girl.
"Passengers, eh?" remarked Burgoyne. "Didn't know we were taking any this trip."
"Eyes front, old man," exclaimed Branscombe in a low tone. "Dear old thing! Remember the path of duty——"
"Is slippery," rejoined the Third Officer, as the Fourth, skidding on the frozen snow in the midst of his homily, measured his length upon the deck. "And be thankful you haven't your No. 1 rig on."
Descending the companion, the two chums gained the alley-way out of which opened the officers' cabins. Here they encountered a stout, jovial-faced man carrying a tea-tray.
"Is there plenty of hot water on in the bathroom, steward?" asked Burgoyne. "Thanks—by the by, what names are on the passenger list?"
"Only five, sir," replied the steward. "There's a Mr. Tarrant, a Mr. Miles, Colonel and Mrs. an' Miss Vivian, sir.... Tea's ready, sir."
"Thanks; pour me out a cup and let it stand, please," said Alwyn, as he hurried off to the bathroom to remove all traces of five hours' hard work in No. 3 hold.
Twelve minutes later Burgoyne, having washed and donned his best uniform, entered the mess-room where the officers had all their meals with the exception of dinner. It was the custom on board ships of the British Columbian and Chinese Shipping Company for the officers to dine with the captain and passengers in the saloon. Although the Donibristle was primarily a cargo-boat, she had accommodation for twelve passengers. These she could carry without being obliged to have a Board of Trade passenger certificate, and since the Donibristle was by no means a fast boat there was no acute competition to secure passenger berths.
Most of the occupants of the mess-room—two engineers, the purser, and two deck officers—had finished tea and were "fugging" round a large stove. Branscombe, who had forestalled his chum by two minutes, was taking huge mouthfuls of bread and jam, and drinking copious draughts of tea with the rapidity of a man who never knows when he will be interrupted by the call of duty, while, in order to take every advantage of the brief spell of leisure, he was scanning a newspaper conveniently propped up against a huge brown earthenware teapot.
"Any news?" inquired Burgoyne.
"United Services draw with Oxford University."
"I'd liked to have seen the match," remarked the Third Officer. It recalled memories of a hard-played game in which Sub-Lieutenant Burgoyne, R.N., was one of the United Service team. That seemed ages ago, although only eight months had elapsed. "And the M.C.C.?" he inquired.
"No match. It was raining cats and dogs in Melbourne," replied Branscombe.
Having heard the latest of two great events in the world of sport that were taking place in almost diametrically opposite parts of the globe, Burgoyne exclaimed:
"Well, any more news? Don't be a mouldy messmate. Hand over half that paper—the part you've read."
"Take this one, Burgoyne," said Withers, the Second Engineer. "There's another boat missing—a week overdue. That's the second this month, an' both between 'Frisco and Kobe."
"Yes, the Alvarado," added the purser. "Wasn't that the vessel we sighted off the Sandwich Islands, Burgoyne?"
"Yes, I was officer of the watch," he replied.
"Well, she's gone without a trace as far as we know," said Withers. "And the Kittiwake went in similar circumstances. If the Alvarado had sent out an S.O.S. we should have got it, I suppose. What's the distance—ah, here's our Signor Marconi or our Mark Antony, whatever you please. Say, young fellah-me-lad, what's our wireless radius?"
This question was addressed to Mostyn, a tall slim youth who had just entered the mess-room. His uniform proclaimed him to be one of the wireless operators.
"Two hundred and fifty by day; six hundred by night," replied Mostyn, who then proceeded with the characteristic fervour of a wireless man to let fly a battery of technical terms and formulae.
"'Vast heaving, my lad," interrupted the Second Engineer, with a jovial laugh. "You've floored me. I feel like that young Canuk must have felt when he was shown over the ship last Monday."
"What was that?" inquired the purser.
"He showed great interest in my scrap heap," replied Withers. "The greatest interest. I explained every mortal thing in the engine-room—twenty-five minutes steady chin-wag. And when I'd finished he just asked: 'And do they work by steam or gasoline?' I've been off my feed ever since," he added pathetically.
"To get back to the Alvarado," said the purser "It's jolly strange for a vessel to drop out of existence nowadays and leave no trace. We can dismiss the mine theory. Fritz didn't try that game on in the North Pacific, and it's hardly likely that the mine laid by the Japs in '05 would be still barging about. Rammed a derelict? Blown up by internal explosion? Turned turtle during a hurricane?"
"A hurricane, perhaps," replied Burgoyne. "We had it a bit stiff just about that time—when Robert was lost overboard."
"Ships do vanish," continued the pessimistic purser. "Wireless and other scientific gadgets notwithstanding. I remember——"
"Chuck it, old man!" interrupted Branscombe.
"Don't try to give us all cold feet. It's cold enough on deck—an' it's my watch," he added dispassionately. The Fourth Officer pushed aside his cup and plate, struggled into his greatcoat, and left the mess-room. It was his job to superintend the clearing up of the decks after the cargo had been stowed, and the stevedores had taken their departure.
The rest of the mess relapsed into silence. Some were deep in the evening papers, others were reading torn and thumb-marked novels. A few, Burgoyne amongst them, retired to the more secluded part of the room in order to write to their relatives and friends, and send the mail ashore before the Donibristle got under way.
"Any passengers?" asked Withers, breaking the prolonged silence.
"Yes, young fellah-me-lad," replied Holmes, the purser. "Boiled shirts and stiff collars for everyone."
"Is that the menu, Holmes?" inquired Withers with well-feigned innocence.
"It will be for you if you don't take care," rejoined the purser severely. "We haven't a full passenger list, but we've got to keep our end up, even though we're not a crack liner."
"Who are they?" asked Mostyn.
"A Colonel Vivian and his wife and daughter," replied Holmes. "They are only going as far as Honolulu—dodging the Canadian winter I should imagine. There's a Mr. Tarrant. He's in the Consular Service, and is bound for Kobe. The last is Mr. Miles. I don't know what he is, but I rather fancy he's a drummer working for a Montreal drug store. Anyone know if the Old Man's aboard yet?"
"Yes, he came aboard with the Chief," replied the wireless officer, "about five minutes before I came below."
"Why on earth didn't you say so before?" demanded Withers, making a precipitate rush for the door. "I didn't expect Angus before eight bells, and——"
"Evidently friend Withers has left undone those things that he ought to have done," observed Holmes. "Get a move on, you fellows. Nothing like punctuality for meals, 'specially when I want a run ashore after dinner."
Twenty minutes later officers and passengers assembled in the saloon for dinner. Although lacking the luxurious trappings of a first-class liner's saloon, the Donibristle's was quite a comfortable, well-equipped apartment. Electric lights in frosted glass bulbs with amber shades threw a warm, subdued light upon the long table. The snow-white table-cloth looked dainty with glittering cutlery and plate. Choice Californian flowers—bought that afternoon in Vancouver by the messman, presumably to create a good initial impression upon the passengers—completed the display.
At the head of the table sat Captain Roger Blair, R.N.R., a short, thick-set Tynesider, whose war record included service in the North Sea, the AEgean, and outer patrol work on the edge of the Arctic Circle. He had been twice in collision and torpedoed on four occasions; yet, until the surrender of the German Fleet, he had never set eyes on a Hun submarine. He was inclined to be irritable as a result of the nervous strain of four and a half years in mine-infested waters under war conditions; but, in spite of being nearly fifty-four years of age, he was accounted one of the finest and most reliable skippers in the company's service.
On his right was Mrs. Vivian, a frail and rather subdued lady with a distinctly nervous manner. Next to her was Colonel Vivian, huge, burly, and bronzed. His features were clear cut, but a rather heavy chin and a military moustache gave the casual observer an impression that the colonel was a severe and stern man. In point of fact he was when in command of a regiment, but in retirement he was jovial and good-natured, and simply doted on his wife and daughter.
Hilda Vivian had been placed on the Captain's left, consequently Alwyn Burgoyne, far down the table, saw but little of her except a partial view of an attractive profile.
Mr. Tarrant, an aesthetic gentleman of about twenty-five or thirty, sat on Miss Vivian's left. Next to him was Miles, an undersized, white-faced individual with an unlimited amount of "push and go" as far as his calling was concerned, and almost a complete apathy towards everything else.
At the foot of the table was Mr. Angus, the Chief Engineer. He was, like the majority of chiefs in the Mercantile Marine, Scotch. His appearance, accent, and mannerisms all pointed to the undeniable fact that he hailed from the Clyde. Five feet ten in height, broad-shouldered, rugged-featured, and with sandy hair, he was both the terror and admiration of the crowd of rapscallions who comprised the rank and file of the Donibristle's stokeholds.
Angus was reported to be "near". If he spent a dollar he took good care to get a dollar's worth in return for his outlay. He never parted with a cent without due consideration—and lengthy consideration at that. But in greater matters he was generous in the extreme. Whenever a subscription list came round for some worthy cause—usually for the widow or dependent of one of the company's former servants—the scrawled initials "J. A." invariably appeared for a substantial amount from Jock Angus's funds. If a fireman, down on his luck, was unable to provide himself with a kit suitable for the climatic conditions and changes of the voyage, the Chief would stealthily interview the purser and see that the man got an outfit at the expense of dour Jock Angus.
And he knew his job from A to Z. Left alone with the necessary tools he could transform a scrap heap into a set of engines and guarantee a good head of steam. He had been in charge of the Donibristle's engines for two years of almost constant running, and never once had they broken down or stopped through mechanical defects.
Beneath the Scotsman's rugged exterior beat the heart of a kindly man. Almost everyone on board took his troubles to Angus, knowing that his confidence would be respected, and that the advice he received was blunt, sympathetic, and sound, while the relations between the Old Man and the Chief ran as smoothly as the well-tuned triple-expansion engines of the good ship Donibristle.
The rest of the officers, with the exception of a few actually on duty, were seated on either side of the long table—good and true men all, typical of the great Mercantile Marine, without which the British Empire would crumble into the dust. Most of them have already been brought to the reader's notice; and since it is yet too early to bring upon the stage the arch-villain Ramon Porfirio and his satellites and myrmidons, they must be temporarily detained in the wings.