For a full minute silence reigned. The chums had light-heartedly discussed the possibility of the convoy sailing; but now, when the supposition merged into hard fact, they could hardly realize the gravity of the situation.
Mitigating circumstances or otherwise, reduced to rock-bottom level, the three non-coms, had overstayed their leave, and were actually deserters, from a military point of view. It was just possible that they might be sent back under arrest to New Zealand. The thought that they would be done Out of "having a slap at Fritz" almost stunned them.
"Let's get back," said Fortescue, as the grey-hulled vessels grew more and more indistinct in the starlit night. "We'll make for the transport office and report ourselves. If we hadn't taken that fellow's advice and wasted precious time looking for Van what's-his-name we might have caught the tender."
"I wonder whether that fellow in the train was all above board?" said Malcolm. "Now I come to think over the matter it looks rather fishy. And we told him a jolly lot, too. He might be a Boche."
"If he is a Boche, and I run across him, I'll bash him," said Selwyn vehemently.
"Set to, you Diggers!" ordered Fortescue. "Selwyn, you take an oar and relieve Carr. Now, then, you pull while I back."
Under the reverse action of the oars the boat turned towards the shore, then both men pulled their hardest.
"We don't seem to be moving," remarked Malcolm after five minutes had elapsed. "I've been watching those two lights, and they have been in line ever since we turned."
"Perhaps we're aground," suggested Fortescue, and thrusting his oar vertically into the water he sounded. The thirteen-foot oar failed to touch bottom.
"Plenty of water," he reported. "Carr, you must be making a mistake. Now, Selwyn, put your back into it. I've never had such a heavy old tub to pull in all my previous experience."
"We're not gaining an inch," reported Malcolm.
"Current out of the river, most likely," was Selwyn's theory.
For once Fortescue lost his temper.
"Currents, you young jackal!" he exclaimed. "Do you think this is a Bath-bun shop? We are a crowd of jackasses. We never unmoored the boat properly."
The craft was fitted with a short bowsprit, from the end of which a wire shroud or "bobstay" led to a shackle-plate in the stem. When the mooring-buoy had been thrown overboard, the rope had caught between the bobstay and the stem, with the result that for the last hour the three raw amateurs in salt-water seamanship had been simply keeping their craft straining at the end of the buoy-rope.
The tension was broken in a double sense. The mooring-rope was this time properly cast adrift, while the mercurial spirits of the three absentees rose to the occasion.
"We've been a crowd of mugs," declared Selwyn, laughing. "Swotting for an hour or more and fancying we were on the move. Now what's to be done?"
"I suggest that we sleep on board until daybreak," said Fortescue. "No good purpose is served by jogging into Cape Town at this hour of the night. I suppose neither of you thought to bring along any tommy?"
The others had to admit that they were unprovided with food.
"Then tighten your belts, boys," continued Fortescue. "We've been feeding like turkey-cocks; a few hours' fast won't do much harm."
With the first streaks of dawn they ran the boat ashore, secured her with a rope, and set off towards the town. When the transport office opened the three absentees reported themselves, and, after having had a stiff "dressing down" were placed under open arrest.
"One advantage of being a non-com.," remarked Fortescue. "We are lucky not to be in the 'clink'."
"That Tommy officer seems a good sort," declared Malcolm. "As you say, he might have made things hot for us. So we have to cool our heels here until we can proceed with the next draft."
Two days later the three chums received instructions to report on board thePomfret Castle, which was due to sail with a mixed contingent on the following afternoon. The vessel was a Union Castle liner commandeered by the Government. Capable of doing twenty-two knots, compared with thePintail'sseventeen, it was more than likely, U-boats and mines excepted, that thePomfret Castlewould arrive at Plymouth days ahead of the convoy with the New Zealand reinforcements.
Taking no chances this time, Malcolm and his companions went on board a couple of hours before the authorized time. Baggage was still being stowed, while the decks teemed with troops of various nationalities. The bulk consisted of South Africans, mostly veterans of middle age, with a sprinkling of youths; detachments transferred from Mesopotamia to France; and Imperial troops from German South-East Africa. A draft of Maoris, and about twenty Australians who had overstayed their leave at Cape Town, completed the muster.
Instructed by the embarkation officer, the New Zealanders went below to their mess.
"Hallo, here are three Diggers!" exclaimed a strapping Queenslander. "Make them at home, you chaps. Now our mess is quite filled up. By Gum, I don't quite cotton on to those Dutchmen. I'm a believer in Australia for the Australians, and You fellows stand in with that crush."
The speaker introduced himself as Jack Kennedy, quartermaster-sergeant by rank, and sheep-farmer in civilian life. His left hand was in a sling, a strip of surgical plaster embellished his cheek. During his stay at Cape Town he had been forced into a squabble with a crowd of disloyal Cape Dutch. Words led to blows, with the result that three of his opponents were picked up insensible, while Kennedy was taken to the military hospital with a broken wrist and a nasty contusion of the forehead, caused by the nail-shod boot of an eighteen-stone antagonist.
"No kits?" continued Kennedy. "Your chaps went on and left you behind? We were much in the same sort of hole, only Buck-up Miller here knows the ropes. We'll soon see that you are comfortable. How about a pannikin of tea?"
Under the attentions of their new chums Malcolm and his companions soon adapted themselves to present conditions, and before thePomfret Castlecleared Table Bay the Anzacs felt as if they had known each other for years.
Although the troops on board were going to fight a common foe--a foe that victorious would speedily prove more than a menace to Australia, to United South Africa, and to civilization in general--there was a certain amount of misunderstanding between the Afrikanders and their brothers-in-arms. In spite of the utmost endurance on the part of the Imperial officers, petty squabbles were frequent. The Boers, for instance, were prone to treat the Maoris in a similar manner to the Kaffir "boys". They could not understand how a white man could treat a Maori as an equal, being ignorant of the high moral and physical standard of the latter, that has justly earned the appreciation and admiration of the New Zealand colonists. For their part the Maoris accepted the Afrikanders' remarks with courteous equanimity, but there were others on board who championed them--with no uncertain voice.
Big Kennedy 'was as good as his word, and before nightfall each of the New Zealanders had a full kit, although they wisely refrained from asking questions as to the origin of the source of supplies. Already they were well advanced in the ways of the old campaigner. If they kept rigidly to the codes of civil life they would soon have found themselves very much out in the cold as far as personal comforts were concerned, although on board, in camp, and on active service, it was noticeable that personal property was rightly considered as inviolate.
One of the morning parades had Just ended, and Malcolm was hurrying down the accommodation-ladder to the mess deck when he was brought up sharply by a huge fist tapping him on the centre of his chest. Coming out of the brilliant sunshine to the comparative gloom 'tween decks, young Carr could not at first discern the features of the man who barred his progress.
It was a Maori. The man was grinning broadly, yet he did not say a single word.
"Te Paheka!" exclaimed Malcolm in astonishment. "You here?"
A few months previously, when Malcolm saw Te Paheka vanishing round a corner as he drove juggernaut at a furious rate, the lad had come to the conclusion that he had seen the last of his Maori friend for many a long day. And now, by one of the vagaries of fate, Te Paheka was on board thePomfret Castle, rigged out in khaki, and bound for the goal of freedom--the Western Front.
"Yes, I came along," explained Te Paheka. "Since you added a few years to your age I thought I would make a corresponding reduction in mine. Things were a bit dull. You heard about the car? Selwyn told you, then? I've cleared out. Sold every acre of land that I could legally dispose of. The rest the paternal Government prevents me getting rid of; but it's let, so I think I'm good for about four hundred a year. By the time I return--if I ever do see Wairakato again--I'll have enough to buy the out-and-out top-hole racing car in New Zealand."
Just then four men hurried along the alley-way. By the letters S.A.H.A. on their shoulder-straps, Malcolm knew that they belonged to the South African Heavy Artillery. As the foremost passed by he deliberately lurched against Te Paheka.
"Out of my way, Zwartnek!" he shouted, adding something inTaalwhich, fortunately for him, neither Malcolm nor the Maori understood.
As the last of the four men passed, Malcolm, seething with indignation, caught a glimpse of his features.
"Dash it all!" he soliloquized. "Where have I seen that fellow before?"
Te Paheka took no notice of the insult.
"I would have told that fellow toimpshiepretty sharp if I'd been you, Te Paheka," observed the lad.
The Maori shrugged his broad shoulders.
"Manners, Malcolm, or the lack of them," he remarked. "This evening I hope to teach him a lesson. There's a boxing-match fixed up, and I hear that this fellow is the champion of his battery. I'll do my best to take him down a peg."
The two men separated, Te Paheka going to his mess, while Malcolm made his way to his quarters, where he informed Selwyn of his chance meeting with the Maori.
"And," he added, "although I'm not absolutely sure about it, I have an idea that the blighter who let us down on the train from Muizenberg is on board."
"A transport officer?" enquired Fortescue.
"No; in khaki--an Afrikander artilleryman."
Fortescue whistled softly.
"Sure?" he asked.
"No, I said I wasn't," declared Malcolm. "I only caught sight of him as he passed. The blighter looked a bit sheepish, and didn't want to catch my eye."
"Golly!" ejaculated Selwyn. "That's fishy! We'll keep a look-out for him. Wonder if he'll put in an appearance at the boxing-match?"
"We will, in any case," observed Kennedy. "All our boys will be there to give your Maori chum a buck up. I'll pass the word to some of the Tommy soldiers. They're good sports, and will shout with the rest of us."
With the laudable intention of keeping the men's minds fully occupied during the hours of leisure, the officers had arranged for the boxing-tournament at an early stage of the voyage. The contests were to take place on the promenade deck, a space having been roped off and seats provided for the officers. Every other available part of the deck which would command a view of the "ring" was packed. Men were clustered like flies in the boats on the boat deck, others swarmed up the shrouds, to the choleric but ineffectual protests of the ship's officers.
Several pairs of sparring-men having displayed their prowess and received indiscriminate praise and rebuffs from their respective supporters, the event of the evening was announced.
Gunner Jan van Eindhovengen was open to engage upon a ten-round contest with any non-commissioned officer or man amongst the troops on board.
Amidst the vociferous shouts of "Oom Jan" from his compatriots, the Afrikander stepped into the ring. Stripped to the waist, his huge bulk, bull neck, and massive limbs showed to their fullest advantage. Across his chest and back the muscles stood out like knots on a gnarled oak. His arms were as thick as the thigh of an ordinary man, while his seconds had considerable difficulty in placing the gloves on his enormous hands. With a supercilious and self-confident smile he folded his arms across his chest and surveyed the dense crowd of spectators.
Having summed up the formidable champion, Malcolm directed his attention towards the group of men from which van Eindhovengen had just emerged. From the other side of the ring the lad scanned the faces of the Afrikander's comrades, but Without the desired result. In vain he looked for the man who, he felt confident, was the selfsame individual they had met on the Muizenberg train.
"A freak of the imagination, I suppose," decided the lad, whereupon he devoted his attention to the events in the ring.
A counter-blast of cheering announced the appearance of a challenger--Sergeant Smithers, of the 2nd Battalion West Othershires. The Sergeant was the best boxer of his regiment, but he had forgotten that a protracted sojourn in the reputed site of the Garden of Eden--where a boundless expanse of glaring sand, a total absence of verdure, millions of tormenting flies, and a meagre menu consisting chiefly of bully beef and tepid water, are the outstanding characteristics--is apt to undermine one's physical condition.
Severely punished, Sergeant Smithers held out for five rounds, while the gigantic Jan, disdaining the services of his seconds, grimly eyed the circle of spectators in the hope of meeting another antagonist.
Softly, then gradually increasing in volume until it rose to a tremendous roar, the Maori war-song greeted the appearance of Te Paheka. In wonderment, for, with few exceptions, none of the other troops had heard the chant-like chorus before, the white men relapsed into silence. For the moment all attention was shifted from van Eindhovengen to the new challenger.
Although middle-aged, Te Paheka displayed the figure of an athlete. His well-developed muscles rippled under his olivine skin. They lacked the gnarled appearance of those of his antagonist, but their easy, rhythmic undulations contrasted favourably with the jerky, bombastic movements of the Afrikander's muscles and sinews. In height van Eindhovengen exceeded him by two inches, and was a good two stone heavier. Standing alone, Te Paheka would have been regarded as a huge man. Confronting the artilleryman, he looked no more than of medium height and build.
Clad in a pair of shorts of a vivid orange hue--for Te Paheka shared with the rest of the Maoris a love of brilliant colour--and with a silk red ensign emblazoned with the New Zealand stars round his waist, Te Paheka grinned amicably at the Afrikander. The Maori's bare chest and back were covered with elaborate tattooing, but, according to modern custom, his face was unmarked.
"Allemachte!" exclaimed one of van Eindhovengen's supporters. "He is not nearly so big as Oom Jan. Oom Jan will wipe the floor with him."
"The presumptuous nigger!" said another. "He does not know Oom Jan!"
Even Malcolm felt doubtful concerning Te Paheka's chances. He knew the Maori to be a good boxer, as most natives are, but age, if only ten or fifteen years, together with inferior reach and weight, must assuredly handicap Te Paheka considerably. The two men advanced and shook hands, van Eindhovengen with obvious disdain, Te Paheka as naturally as the gentleman he was.
"Take your corners, men!"
Round No. 1 commenced. The Afrikander, confident of knocking out his opponent quickly and completely, led off with a tremendous blow with his left. Had the glove hit its mark Te Paheka would have been shot over the ropes like a stone from a catapult. Stepping smartly back a couple Of paces, he allowed the blow to fall on empty air.
"Jehoshaphat!" ejaculated Kennedy. "Why didn't the Maori take advantage of it? The Dutchy nearly overbalanced himself with the force of his blow."
Malcolm, to whom the remark was addressed, made no reply beyond a confident nod. Already he was tumbling to Te Paheka's tactics. The Maori was fighting a rear-guard action hoping that his staying powers and agility were greater than those of his ponderous opponent.
Round and round the ring the two men went, until the South Africans yelled to their man to hurry up and the Anzacs began to mutter impatiently.
Thud! Te Paheka had got one home on the face of the Afrikander. Outwardly it had little or no effect upon Jan's rugged figurehead.
The Maoris yelled with delight, but the next instant their hopes were dashed to the ground as Te Paheka, incautiously attempting to follow up his advantage, laid himself open to a terrific blow from the Afrikander's right. With a dull crash he landed heavily on the sanded floor.
Over him stood van Eindhovengen, ready to strike him down should he attempt to rise. The cool, deliberate voice of the timekeeper calling off the fateful ten seconds silenced all other sounds of approbation or encouragement to the fallen man. In the intervals between the numbers one could have heard a pin drop. For the first time since the tournament started could be heard the plash of the waves against the ship's sides and the gentle moan of the wind through the rigging.
Seven--eight--nine!
The Afrikander struck--but struck emptiness--where Te Paheka had been a fraction of a second before. With an agility so rapid that the spectators had not time to grasp its significance, the Maori regained his feet, dealt a numbing blow upon the biceps of his antagonist, and was off to the opposite corner of the ring.
Before the boxers could engage again "Time" sounded.
Te Paheka was glad of the respite. It was also remarked that Jan did not scorn the attentions of his second. A dull mark on the upper part of his brawny right arm promised trouble to him in the near future.
During the second round the Maori kept strictly on the defensive, while van Eindhovengen tired himself considerably in making blind and ineffectual rushes at his nimble opponent. His supporters no longer yelled to him to "hurry up and knock the black out", while the Maoris sung their choruses again and again every time Jan failed to drive Te Paheka over the ropes.
The third round was a slow one. The Afrikander, realizing that he was fatiguing himself with futile efforts, adopted semi-defensive tactics, in the hope that the Maori would close. It was not until the close of time that the latter succeeded in getting home a "body punch", which did not improve Jan's temper.
"Do something this time, you chaps!" shouted a Tommy as the men faced each other for the fourth round. "You're supposed to be sparring, not going in for a waltzing race."
"By Jove, he's cornered!" exclaimed Fortescue, as Te Paheka, stepping back to avoid a left-hander, came in contact with the ropes.
The Afrikander's glove rasped the Maori's ribs. So violent was the effort that again Jan was on the point of overbalancing. This time Te Paheka followed up the advantage. An upper cut caught van Eindhovengen full on the point of his chin, while almost simultaneously the Maori drove home a resounding blow on the Afrikander's solar plexus.
Down like a felled ox the huge South African dropped. In silence the spectators heard the fateful ten seconds called, then a vociferous cheer from Afrikanders, Anzacs, and Maoris alike greeted the victor. For that instant the sporting instincts of the men triumphed over racial prejudices, and for the rest of the voyage--and after--the Maoris and Afrikanders "hit it off" splendidly.
Map
Map
[Illustration: "BY GUM, THAT'S A MIGHTY QUEER CHUNK OF COAL!"]
[Illustration: "BY GUM, THAT'S A MIGHTY QUEER CHUNK OF COAL!"]
Day after day passed, and although thePomfret Castlewas pelting along at full speed there were no signs of the convoy of which thePintailformed part. If the liner were in wireless touch with the transports the fact was never communicated to the troops on board. As far as they were concerned the South Atlantic was a desert, for not another vessel had been sighted since leaving Cape Town.
At Sierra Leone thePomfret Castlefound two more liners awaiting her. Having coaled, the three vessels, under the escort of a light cruiser, left for Plymouth.
The troops were now approaching the U-boat danger-zone. For four days a course due west was maintained, until the vessels ported helm and Stood north, it being the rule that no two convoys should shape the same course through the North Atlantic.
"You've been torpedoed already, have you?" enquired an Australian, addressing Jack Kennedy. "What did you do?"
"Do?" replied the Queenslander, with a laugh. "Why, simply put on my life-belt and made tracks for the boat. We only had ten minutes before the old hooker sank. The boys had a high old time. They actually put the ship up for auction as she was foundering. It was a calm----"
"Periscope on the starboard bow!" shouted a stentorian voice.
Already the 4.7-inch guns were manned. The Maxims began hurling nickel at the rate of 450 shots a minute, with the idea of either disabling the periscope or churning up the water in its vicinity, in order to make it impossible for the U-boat to discharge a torpedo with any degree of accuracy. Simultaneously the helm was starboarded, and thePomfret Castlesteered straight for the patch where the machine-gun bullets were ricochetting from the water.
The escorting cruiser, then two miles to wind'ard, also altered course, but, owing to thePomfret Castlebeing in her line of fire, could not take an active part in the proceedings.
The "Cease fire" sounded as the liner approached the spot where the periscope had been observed.
Some of the troops began to cheer at the thought that a U-boat had been sent to the bed of the Atlantic, but their jubilation was quickly nipped in the bud.
In the centre of the patch, and torn by machinegun fire almost to a state of unrecognizability, was a bird known as a diver. ThePomfret Castlelook-out had mistaken the unfortunate fowl for the periscope of a hostile submarine, at the cost of the bird's life and an extravagant waste of ammunition.
Although the three New Zealanders were keenly on the alert to renew the acquaintance with their supposed transport official, the man, if he were on board, had not come under their observation. At every available opportunity Malcolm and his chums were on deck when the South Africans paraded, but without satisfactory results.
"I am forced to come to the conclusion that you are the victim of an unaccountable hallucination, my lad," observed Fortescue to Malcolm, shortly after the diver incident. "I The fellow, if he is on board, couldn't lie doggo all this time. This morning I found an excuse to have a look round the sick quarters, and our Muizenberg pal isn't there."
"I am certain I spotted him when I first met Te Paheka on board," insisted Malcolm.
"Pardon me, laddie," said Fortescue firmly, "but you weren't at all sure about it at the time. An impression grows until you are certain of something that never occurred. I've known a fellow pitch an altogether impossible yarn before to-day. He also was aware of the fact, but in time he became firmly convinced that his statement was gospel truth."
That afternoon the course of the convoy was abruptly changed to due west again, in obedience to a signal from the escorting cruiser. It was quite a simple matter that resulted in the alteration of course. The cruiser found that she was in the track of an unknown vessel that, although invisible, left a tell-tale track by throwing overboard ashes and other debris. A keen-wittedkapitan-leutnantof a U-boat would not fail to take advantage of these it "signs and portents", hence the advisability of giving the steamer's track a wide berth.
The vessels comprising the convoy were also cautioned when in the danger-zone to avoid "starting" ashes from the stokehold, and throwing garbage and refuse overboard, except at specified times, in order to baffle the hostile submarines' quest. Day and night a guard of riflemen stood to arms on deck, Maxims were ready for instant action, and the crews of the quick-firers slept at the guns. Hourly the game of U-boat dodging became more exciting.
The troops, however, were quite composed, beyond indulging in friendly bets as to their chances of arriving at Plymouth without being torpedoed. They ate heartily, and for the most part slept soundly.
"You were hard and fast in the land of dreams last night, Malcolm," remarked Dick Selwyn in the morning.
"Why do you mention the fact? I plead guilty to the indictment," rejoined his chum.
"There was a bit of a flutter in the night," explained Selwyn. "The cruiser reported that there was a light flashing through one of the scuttles. Our skipper sent for the C.O., and he turned out the guard. Every part of the ship was visited, but without success, for the dead-lights were in position over every scuttle. Then, almost as soon as the rounds were over, the cruiser complained about the same thing again. Twice a corporal's guard was in here, and yet you slept through it all."
Selwyn had not erred on the side of exaggeration. On the contrary, he had not attached the fullest importance to the incident. Not only was a light showing from thePomfret Castle; it was blinking, sending a message in Morse, although the signalman of the cruiser was unable to decipher the code.
"Boys," exclaimed Kennedy, "there's a call for volunteers for the stokeholds! How about it?"
"Firemen on strike?" enquired an Australian, as he tumbled out of a comfortable attitude on a locker, and stretched his arms and gave a prodigious yawn.
"No, chum," replied Kennedy. "The convoy has to increase speed--we're about to cross the intensive zone--and the old tub requires a lot of whacking up."
"Then I'm on," said his questioner with alacrity.
Fortescue, Selwyn, and Carr were also amongst the volunteers, and after breakfast twenty men paraded in dungarees to take their "trick" below.
"Hanged if I'd like to do this for a living," remarked Malcolm, as the men gingerly made their way down the greasy and polished perpendicular ladder, one of many that gave access to No. 2 stokehold. "It's all right for the novelty of the thing. What with this pitching and rolling it reminds me of Point Elizabeth Colliery in an earthquake."
"If a blessed torpedo should----" began one of the Anzacs, but Kennedy promptly shut him up.
"Less chin-wag going; you'll want all your energy for elbow grease," he exclaimed. "Now then, chum, give the word and we'll do our best."
The last sentence was addressed to one of the regular hands, who, stripped to the waist like the rest of thePomfret Castle'sfiremen and greasers, was responsible for this particular stokehold.
"Just you wait till we've got shot of this crush," said the man, indicating a number of South Africans who had just completed their two-hours' voluntary task. "They've stuck it jolly well. If you chaps do as good we'll make the old boat hop it like billy-oh."
A crowd of Afrikanders, black with coal dust and running with perspiration, filed along the narrow passage between the huge boilers. Amongst them was Jan van Eindhovengen, proud as a peacock at having broken all records in shovelling coal from the bunkers.
When the twenty South Africans had left the stokehold the relieving gang was set to work. Malcolm's task was to remove coal from a cavernous recess, the fuel being handled by Fortescue and Selwyn, who had to transport it to one of the furnaces. At other bunkers a similar operation was performed by their comrades, the "trimmers" being specially instructed to remove the coal in a methodical manner, so that there was slight possibility of the remaining contents being thrown out by the roll of the vessel. Others, armed with long-handled shovels, fed the capacious furnaces so frequently that the place reverberated to the clanging of the red-hot metal doors at the ends of the multi-tube boilers. At intervals the ash-hoists had to be supplied with still-smouldering embers, for so quickly did the heaps of ashes accumulate, that, unless removed constantly, they would seriously hamper the fireman at work in the already-congested space.
Before Malcolm had been twenty minutes at his task he began to realize the necessity for careful removal of the lumps of coal. In spite of every precaution, masses of black, shiny fuel would clatter down from the steadily-diminishing heap. Since he was wearing a pair of canvas shoes and no socks, he had to display considerable agility in avoiding the miniature avalanches.
Presently he came to a tight "pack". The lumps were so closely wedged that the only way to attack the sloping wall of coal was by means of a long "fireman's rake".
Just as Malcolm was releasing the top tier, the vessel gave a heavier roll than usual, and a regular cataract of coal shot towards the mouth of the bunker. Back sprang the lad, crouching the while to prevent bringing his head in contact with a low girder. Even then he was too late. A huge lump, fully eighteen inches in diameter, trundled over his left foot and brought up against the sill of the bunker.
Fully expecting to find his foot crushed, Malcolm was agreeably surprised, and at the same time astonished, that nothing of the sort occurred. Beyond a few slight grazes, he was uninjured. Desisting from his labours, he regarded the mass of coal with studied interest.
"Buck up, laddie!" exclaimed Fortescue. "Keep the pot boiling! Don't go to sleep!"
Disregarding the admonition, Malcolm stooped and grasped the huge mass. He could lift it with the utmost ease. At the very outside it weighed less than five pounds.
"What do you make of this?" he bawled, tossing the lump to Fortescue. The latter, prepared to receive a weighty object, was quite as surprised as Carr had been.
"By gum," he remarked, "that's a mighty queer chunk of coal!"
"Found a nugget?" enquired Selwyn, glad of an opportunity of a respite.
"It's hollow, and it's been filled with water," continued Fortescue. "The thing, whatever it is, is still leaking. Chuck it aside, and let's get on with the job. We'll examine it later."
"What's all this jawing about?" asked the leading hand. "Chauvin' yer fat won't empty this 'ere bunker."
"I agree," rejoined Fortescue complaisantly. "But cast your optics on this, my festive shoveller."
"Ain't you seen a lump of coal afore?" demanded the man.
"Not like this one," said Fortescue. "Handle it."
The man took the proffered object; then, muttering an unintelligible ejaculation, simply bolted with it to the nearest ladder.
"Hallo, here's another find!" exclaimed Selwyn. "This yours, Malcolm?"
He held up a small pocket-book, black with coal dust.
"Not mine," replied Carr. "Must have belonged to one of those fellows we relieved."
"Possibly," agreed Selwyn, throwing the book into the pocket of his overalls. "We'll soon find out if it is."
The interrupted task was resumed, but in less than ten minutes the leading hand returned, accompanied by three of the regular firemen.
"You three," he announced, indicating Carr and his chums, "are to knock off and report to the Quartermaster."
Going on deck they duly reported themselves, and were conducted to a cabin on the lower bridge, their protests about having to appear in a coal-grimed state being ignored.
Within were the Captain and the Chief Engineer of the ship, while in two pieces on the table lay the lump of "coal".
"Which of you found this?" enquired the "Old Man" brusquely, indicating Malcolm's find.
"I did, sir," replied the lad. "I It rolled on my foot, and, finding it was remarkably light, I examined it."
"A thundering good job you did," rejoined the Captain. "Look here, this is in confidence--you must not mention the affair to anyone--had that thing been thrown into the furnace, the chances are that the ship would have been blown up. No. 7 bunker---- Let me see, Jephson," he continued, addressing the engineer; "that was replenished at Sierra Leone, wasn't it?"
The officer addressed consulted a memorandum.
"No, sir," he replied; "7 and 8 of No. 2 stoke-hold were bunkered at Cape Town. They hadn't been touched when we arrived at Sierra Leone."
The infernal machine--for such it was--was an ingeniously-constructed piece of work. The hollow shell of papier-mâché was made to resemble a lump of coal. Within was a slab of wet gun-cotton, while to make up the deficiency of weight the hollow was filled with water. Fortunately the bomb must have been cracked in contact with lumps of genuine coal, for the water had escaped. The contrivance would have been thrown into the furnace, with disastrous results; but Malcolm's astuteness had saved the situation.
"Mind, not a word!" cautioned the Skipper again as the three New Zealanders were dismissed. "In due course your conduct will be reported to the proper authorities, and no doubt you will hear favourably on the matter."
"How about that notebook?" enquired Malcolm. The three chums were lounging in camp-chairs on the upper deck after their strenuous but interrupted "trick below". In consideration for their voluntary labours all men who had been in the stokehold were excused drills and parades for the rest of the day.
"Clean forgot all about it," replied Selwyn. "I left it in the pocket of my boiler suit. By this time I guess some other fellow is wearing the overalls. After all, the notebook may find its way to the rightful owner."
The three sat in silence for some minutes. Fortescue was puffing at his pipe, deep in thought; Selwyn was idly contemplating the unbroken expanse of horizon; while Malcolm devoted his attention to the examination of half a dozen large blisters on his hands. Already soldiering had hardened his hands considerably, but stoking, he decided, had proved to be far more strenuous than bayonet exercise, if an aching back, stiff muscles, and galls as big as half-crowns were any criterion.
Thus engaged, the chums hardly noticed the appearance of a corporal's guard--an N.C.O. and two privates with side-arms. Consequently they were surprised when the Corporal halted his men and asked abruptly:
"Are you Diggers the chaps what were doing stoking just now in No. 2 stokehold? You are? Well, you're bloomin' well under arrest."
"Under arrest--what for?" demanded Fortescue. For a moment he suspected a practical joke, but the fact that the men wore side-arms knocked that idea on the head.
"Dunno," replied the man shortly. "Fall in!"
Along the crowded troop deck the prisoners and their escort made their way, their presence occasioning little interest on the part of the spectators. Defaulters were common objects amongst the different Colonial troops who comprised thePomfret Castle'spassengers.
Outside the large cabin known as the orderly-room were a dozen Australians, also under guard. Presently their numbers were augmented by five more. Every man of the coaling squad in No. 2 stokehold had been arrested.
"What's this rotten farce all about?" demanded Kennedy, appealing to the New Zealanders.
Malcolm shook his head. His own impression was that it had something to do with the discovery of the explosive in the bunker.
"Silence!" ordered a sergeant-major, who was now in charge of the batch of prisoners.
The door was thrown open, and the Anzacs with their escort paced into the orderly-room. At one end was a green-baize-covered table, at which were seated four "Tommy" officers--a major, two captains, and a lieutenant of a British line regiment. In front of them were sheets of foolscap, a book on military law, and a small object wrapped in brown paper.
"You men," began the Major without any preliminaries, "volunteered for work in No. 2 stoke-hold. Twenty all told, I see. Were there any other men of the party, or do you comprise the whole squad? Very well, then. Now I mean to find out who is the owner of this article. It was found in one of the boiler suits supplied to the squad; it was not there when the suits were issued, consequently the article in question must belong to one of you men. The owner of this will step forward two paces."
The Major, unwrapping the paper coverings, held up for inspection the notebook that Selwyn had picked up in his bunker.
"Is this your property?" demanded the Major as Selwyn stepped forward.
"No, sir."
"Then why the deuce----" exclaimed the officer, raising his voice. "Here, remove the other prisoners."
For twenty minutes the ejected men cooled their heels in the alley-way until again summoned to the orderly room.
"You are released from arrest," declared the Major curtly; then, as an afterthought, he added: "It would be advisable that you maintain discretion over the matter."
"What happened, old man?" enquired Fortescue, as the three New Zealanders gained a secluded part of the mess deck.
"The pocket-book contained a secret code," explained Selwyn. "It has been partly deciphered, and is proved to be a means of communication between someone on board the ship and the U-boats. I explained how I found it, and offered to produce you chaps as witnesses, but the Major was awfully decent about it. He means to find the owner, and if necessary is going to interrogate every man who went into that stokehold. Hallo, they've rounded up our immediate predecessors already."
As he spoke twenty Afrikanders, headed by the gigantic Jan van Eindhovengen, marched along the mess deck under escort.
"By Golly!" exclaimed Fortescue. "That's the man!"
"Who--the boxer?" enquired Selwyn.
"No, the last but one. Our pal in the Muizenberg train."
"So it is," agreed Malcolm. "Don't let him twig us."
The Diggers waited until the batch of suspects vanished.
"Ought we to report what we know concerning that chap?" asked Malcolm.
"And possibly get choked off if we do," objected Fortescue. "Let's wait and see what happens. If the fellow is bowled out, there's no need for us to butt in. He'll face a firing-party without our assistance. Taken for granted that he is a spy, what was his object in bamboozling us?"
"Give it up," replied Selwyn. "Getting three men to miss their proper transport wouldn't affect the progress of the war sufficiently to warrant his action."
"We told him a lot--more than we ought to have done," remarked Malcolm. "Of course we didn't know."
"And then I suppose," added Fortescue, "he thought we might report the matter, and so he switched us off on a branch line, so to speak. We'll let it go at that, but it wouldn't be a bad move to wait outside the orderly-room after those fellows have gone in and play the eavesdropper. If our Muizenberg pal is marched off under escort, then we needn't trouble further in the matter. If he gets off, then we'll tackle him and ask him for an explanation."
Acting upon this suggestion, the three chums made their way along the alley-way until they came to the orderly-room door. The Afrikanders were already within. Outside stood a "Tommy" sergeant as part of the escort.
"Want to go through the hoop again, you chaps?" enquired the N.C.O., with a grin.
"Not much--only curious," replied Fortescue, who had met the non-com. before on several occasions. "We'llimpshie--hook it, you know--when they clear the court."
Listening, the three chums could hear the stern tones of the Major and the bass voice of the interpreter, for several of the South Africans spoke nothing but Taal--a dialect comprised largely of Dutch, with a sprinkling of Zulu and Kaffir words.
"That's our man," whispered Malcolm.
"The blighter's yapping in Dutch," announced Fortescue, "and he can speak English perfectly. Hallo!"
A torrent of words, plainly indicating indignant denials, wafted through the closed door. Several of the Afrikanders were speaking at once. A revolver-shot rang out, a sharp exclamation of pain, and then a tremendous scuffling.
"Come on, boys!" ordered the Sergeant, addressing the men of the escort waiting without.
The door was thrown open. The Tommies rushed in, while at their heels came Fortescue, Selwyn, and Carr. Their resolution to remain passive and unseen witnesses had vanished into thin air.
Within all was confusion. The Major lay with his head and shoulders resting upon the table. Two of the other officers were endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed from his forehead. In one corner of the room a crowd of Afrikanders swayed in a compact mass, as if eager to wreak their vengeance on someone, while held like a rat in the jaws of a terrier was the man from Muizenberg, his captor being Jan van Eindhovengen.
"Give him to us, Jan!" shouted a dozen angry voices. "We know what to do with the rogue."
With difficulty the furious Afrikanders were calmed. The spy, his features pale with terror, was removed under a strong guard, while the wounded officer was carried to the sick quarters.
It was not until the afternoon that Oom Jan told Fortescue of what had occurred. Already strange rumours of varying degrees of accuracy had floated round the ship, but it was unanimously agreed that van Eindhovengen was the hero of the hour.
The spy had contrived to join the draft at Cape Town under the name of Pieter Waas. The real Pieter Waas happened to be a stranger to the rest of the Afrikanders, and, induced to desert by spy, had considerately transferred his name to his doubtful benefactor.
At the court of enquiry the pseudo Waas denied all knowledge of the pocket-book, although van Eindhovengen had seen the man with it in his possession without knowing its sinister import. It was not until it was explained to the Afrikanders that the ownerless book was a means by which they might be sent to the bottom of the sea by a hostile submarine that Oom Jan "rounded" on the spy. At first the fellow strenuously contradicted van Eindhovengen's accusation, but the big Afrikander would not be gainsaid. Suddenly the suspect whipped out a small automatic pistol. Whether it was with the intention of taking his own life or that of his accuser he himself only knew.
Like a flash van Eindhovengen's hand shot out. His powerful fingers gripped the spy's wrist as in a vice. As the pistol dropped from the fellow's limp hand the weapon went off, a bullet grazing the head of the president of the court of enquiry, and rendering him insensible.
"And now," concluded Oom Jan, "the spy is under lock and key. He is a slimsmous= rascal (Cape Dutch), but, Allemachte, it is all over with him. Presently, after he has set foot on dry land, a dozen bullets will bid himHambla gachle. It is a too fitting end to a spy."
"But he hasn't been tried and sentenced yet," remarked Fortescue.
The Afrikander's face fell.
"Surely he is guilty," he said. "Why then waste time over him?"
"It is the Englishman's proud boast that every prisoner shall be given a fair trial," explained Fortescue. "It will be general court martial, no doubt. Thank goodness we New Zealanders are not mixed up in the business. By the by, Malcolm, have you any idea when we arrive at Plymouth? It seems to me that we've been dodging across the Atlantic half a dozen times."
"This is the twenty-eighth day of the voyage," observed Malcolm. "I heard that when thePomfret Castlewas on the ordinary mail service she did the trip in fourteen as regular as clockwork."
"There's one thing, the boys will be snugly in camp by this time and waiting for us," added Selwyn. "We've missed the rotten 'shaking down' process. I wonder what sort of a show Codford is like?"
"You'll find out in due course," replied Fortescue grimly. "I've had some; enough of Salisbury Plain for me, thank you."
"We're not there yet," Malcolm reminded him.
Fortescue looked fixedly at the expanse of sea over which the twilight was spreading. Already the grey outline of the convoying cruiser was blending into invisibility against the gathering mantle of night.
"'That's so," he agreed solemnly.