CHAPTER XV.
“AS you know, Miss Norah,” the captain said gravely, “I discourage early rising. It’s a bad thing—leads to chronic attacks of superfluous energy, and embroils passengers with the deck-hands.”
“Especially the last!” said Norah, laughing.
“Well—possibly. Deck hands are busy people and passengers are not; therefore passengers should remain peaceably in bed until they won’t be in the way. Which remarks are not intended to apply to you, Miss Norah.”
“How would they?” Jim laughed. “There’s nothing of the Spartan early riser about Norah.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” the captain said. “All the same, I’m about to advise you to turn out early to-morrow. We’ll be in Cape Town about six in the morning, and you mustn’t miss the sunrise over the mountain. It’s one of the finest things in the world.”
“Oh, I’m glad you told me, captain,” Norah said. “I’ll tell my steward to call me.”
“Yes—don’t forget. The harbour is an interesting one altogether; but the mountains are grand, and coming in, the view changes each moment. We shall probably be going out in the dusk, so you must be sure of seeing the entrance.”
They had had a quick and uneventful run round the Cape of Good Hope from Durban, missing altogether the dreaded “Agulhas roll” which is the bugbear of the sea-sick. Every one had revelled in the luxury of lit decks and open port-holes, in the security lent by the knowledge that a British cruiser was just ahead of thePerseus. To-morrow night the old restrictions would be in full force again—but first there would be Cape Town, and twelve hours ashore. Norah had always had vague longings to see Cape Town; no port on the homeward route interested her half so much as the city nestling at the foot of Table Mountain. She went to bed early, leaving everything in readiness for the morning start—determined to waste nothing of that precious twelve hours.
It was still dark when she awoke, with a start, from a confused dream, in which she had been chased by an apparently infuriated motor, shrieking defiance at her. As she tried to collect her scattered faculties the sound she had heard in her dream came again—a long, hoarse shriek.
“What on earth——?” she queried, sitting up. She switched on her light—it was two o’clock. Voices were heard along the corridor, to be drowned by another evil howl.
“Something’s wrong,” Norah decided. “It can’t be boat-drill for us, ’cause that’s two short, sharp whistles. Everything’s funny and dim—I believe something has gone wrong with the electric light supply.” She jumped, as the long scream came again.
Then she heard her father’s voice, quiet and steadying.
“Awake, Norah? Not scared, are you?”
“N-no, I don’t think so, Daddy,” Norah answered, not quite certain if she were speaking the truth. “Is it the Germans?”
“It’s fog, I think,” Mr. Linton said, coming in. “My cabin is full of it—and so is yours.”
Voices were breaking out everywhere, drowned at regular intervals by the long howl.
“What’s the matter?”
“Is it the Germans?”
“We’re wrecked, I suppose.” This was an elderly lady’s voice, in lugubrious certainty.
“It’s boat-drill—hurry up!”
“We’re signalling for help!”
“Henry—where are my slippers?” And Henry’s voice—“I haven’t got ’em on, my dear!”
Jim was in Norah’s cabin, suddenly.
“Thought you might be scared, kiddie,” he said. “But it’s only fog, I think. Great Scott! doesn’t that siren make a row!”
Then came the voice of the third officer, very bored and patient; and a dozen voices assailing him.
“No—fog only, I assure you. No danger at all. No—there isn’t a German within a hundred miles. Merely fog-horn, madam. Yes, it’s quite thick. Certainly you can come on deck, if you really like fog; you won’t see anything. No, we don’t expect to run on any rocks. I should advise you to get back to bed. The fog-horn blows every half-minute.”
“But it’s waked the baby!” came on a high note of grievance.
“Sorry,” said the third officer’s bored voice, still polite. “I should recommend the baby to get used to it.” They heard his quick footsteps retreating up the corridor.
“Well, there’s nothing to stay up for—and isn’t it cold!” Jim ejaculated. “I hope to goodness this will have gone before morning; it will be a nuisance if it spoilt the entrance to the harbour, so far as view is concerned.”
“Don’t speak of such a horrid thing!” said Norah, sleepily, snuggling down among the pillows. “Go back to bed, Daddy dear—you’ll get so cold. Thank you both for coming.” For a while she stayed awake, while the clamour in the ship died down gradually, and only the slow hooting of the siren was heard. It was not exactly a soothing lullaby, but nevertheless Norah fell asleep.
Her steward’s face peered at her some hours later. He had switched on the light, but the cabin was eerie and dim.
“I didn’t like not to call you, miss, as you said,” he remarked. “But as far as gettin’ up to see the view’s concerned, there ain’t none. There’s nothin’ but fog anywhere.”
Norah uttered a disgusted exclamation.
“Oh, I did want to see the entrance!”
“Well, there ain’t no entrance neither, miss. Captain, he won’t risk tryin’ to get in—why, you can’t see your ’and in front of you. We’ve just got to lie about until the fog lifts—an’ goodness knows when that’ll be. If I was you, miss, I’d just go to sleep again till the usual time to get up—an’ if the fog clears before, I’ll come an’ tell you at once.”
“Well, if there’s nothing to see, I suppose I had better do that,” said Norah, yawning.
“There’s much worse than nothin’, miss,” the steward said, his voice as gloomy as the cabin. He went away, after turning out the light.
“It’s absolutely disgusting!” Wally declared when breakfast was over. It had been a queer meal, eaten in a kind of dim half-light; and now they were on deck, wrapped in heavy coats, yet shivering a little. All about them was a dense white wall of mist. It was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction; people who passed them loomed dimly first, then came out of the wall more clearly, until quite visible, and in a moment were swallowed up again as their footsteps died away. The fog swung in wreaths between them as they talked, whenever a breath of light wind came; but for the most part there was no wind at all, and a heavy stillness seemed to weigh upon everything. At half-minute intervals the hoarse scream of the fog-horn roared out above their heads, in a hideous, discordant howl; and from all around them came similar shrieks, some far off, some so near that at any moment it seemed that the fog might part and show a ship drifting down upon them.
ThePerseusherself was drifting. Part of the uncanny stillness was due to the absence of the familiar throb of the screw. Inch by inch she slid through the oily water, of which no trace could be seen even by peering over the side. There was nothing but mist. The wet decks were slippery with it; there was no dry corner anywhere. Through it the gigantic blue shape of the funnel loomed dimly, but its top was quite lost; they could not even see the bridge, where a double watch was being kept. The captain had not left it since the first fog-cloud had rolled up out of the sea.
“It isn’t safe to speak to an officer,” Jim declared. “Poor beggars, they’re all on duty; it must be cheery to have responsibility in this sort of weather. I found MacTavish right up in the bow, straining his eyes into the fog, and put a timid question to him—I wouldn’t have wondered if he had snapped my head off, but he was pretty civil. He says there’s not the slightest prospect yet of its lifting, unless a wind gets up—and there’s no sign of a wind!”
“Well, that is pretty cheery,” uttered Wally. “However, it’s all experience.”
“Confirmed optimists like you ought to be sat on three times a day!” Jim said. “A little of this sort of experience goes a long way—and doesn’t make up for missing the sunrise on Table Mountain.”
“Never mind—it will give you something to talk of for ever so long,” Wally answered. “You can’t possibly talk about sunrises to a girl you’re dancing with, but you can make awfully good yarns out of a fog like this. Cheer up, Jimmy; you’ll be ever so much more interesting in the future!”
“I’m not proposing to do much dancing, or talking either,” said Jim, laughing. “So the prospect doesn’t console me. At the moment, it would console me more to batter someone—preferably you. Norah, you’re cold!”
“I know I am,” said Norah, shivering. “This old fog gets into one’s very bones. Doesn’t it make you homesick now to think of old Billabong, and the sunlight out on the Far Plain!”
“And a bogged bullock, with a note like that fog-horn!” retorted Wally. “It’s too cold to stand still, I think—let’s walk.”
They walked, arm in arm, with Norah between them, finding it necessary to talk loudly to avoid collisions in the fog, as their rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the deck. In the fore part of the ship a few bedraggled sea-birds had floundered into the rigging, and now sat there, crouched and miserable, afraid to set off again into the white horror all round them. A magpie, brought from Australia, which ordinarily lived in the bow and made cheerful remarks to the whole ship, was crouched in a corner of its cage, dismally squawking, while its deadly enemy, a sulphur-crested cockatoo with which it was on most disrespectful terms, had no spirit left to insult it, but drooped on its perch. The ship seemed dead; none of the usual cheery bustle was going on, since all possible tasks were discontinued to leave the crew free to watch. Weary watching it was, straining overside in dread of seeing a dark hull loom out of the fog, knowing that it would then, in all probability, be too late to avert disaster.
A monotonous voice led them to the side of the ship. A sailor was standing on a tiny platform over the rail, secured by a leather band round his body. He leaned well out, heaving the lead with a practised hand, his voice chanting the depth tonelessly—“By the deep—by the mark!” Seen in the mist that clung in beads to his blue guernsey and tarry trousers he seemed unnaturally large—and the dreary call was more depressing than the ceaseless hoot of the fog-horn.
They gave up the deck at last, and went below, where the passengers were gathered in the lounges and smoking-rooms, trying to make the best of the weary day. The fog was everywhere; it crept through every open doorway and port-hole, and filled cabins and alleyways, so that jocund humourists went along hooting, for fear of being run down. Every electric light was on, as though it were midnight; they gleamed through the hanging mist, globes of dingy yellow. Babies howled dismally—sleepy and heavy, but kept awake by the incessant fog-horn; their mothers, pale and anxious, tried vainly to soothe them. Norah secured her own especial baby, bore him off to her cabin, and tucked him under her grey ’possum rug; and then, to her own immense surprise, fell asleep beside him, and slumbered peacefully until the luncheon gong came into competition with the siren, and the baby woke and demanded nourishment.
There was no sign of the fog lifting. They lunched in silence; conversation was impossible, and the stewards, flitting about in the misty gloom, spoke in sepulchral whispers. No officers were visible; the empty chairs at each table bore mute witness to the urgency of their watch. The doctor made a valiant effort to maintain cheerfulness, and succeeded in dispelling a fraction of the depression in his particular corner. But even the doctor was incapable of spreading himself over an entire saloon, and his efforts to be, as he pathetically said, a sunbeam, were local and not general. Nobody seemed happy, and the meal was finished in half the usual time.
Afterwards, the doctor bore down upon the Billabong party, his face full of determination.
“This won’t do,” he said. “I shall have all the ladies on board developing nerves. You youngsters must come and help me—get Grantham and West and that long New South Wales fellow, and we’ll start some sort of a game in the lounge. The fog is thicker than ever, and the only thing we can do is to make people forget it.”
“Right-oh, doctor!” Wally answered. “It would be easier to forget it, if we weren’t eating it all the time—but we’ll do our best.” So they organised an uproarious game that gathered in every one, even to the mothers and the babies; and by working the piano to its utmost, succeeded in supplanting for a time the incessant shriek of fog-horns. Tea found a ship’s company considerably cheered, and with more appetite.
“It’s wearing, but it pays,” said the doctor, cheerfully. “You’ve all helped me nobly, and next time I have to organise a band of sunbeams, may you all be shining lights in it! There’s a vein of pure idiocy in Wally that I appreciate most highly.”
“I’m overcome,” said Wally, bowing.
“Don’t mention it,” said the doctor, affably. “True merit ought always to be acknowledged. No, I think you’re all dismissed from duty now; the mothers will be thinking of bathing the babies, and most of the others are exhausted—and small wonder. I’m thinking of going to sleep myself; the noise kept me awake last night.”
“Let’s go up on deck,” Norah said. “I’m tired of being shut up, below—and it’s almost as foggy here as anywhere. The ship is full of fog.”
On deck the white curtain seemed more impenetrable than ever. Everything was dripping wet, with an unclean clamminess far worse than honest rain. All round them came the wailing of fog-horns from invisible ships; sometimes the sound came from far off, approached gradually, and then went by them in the mist—unseen. Most of the ships were drifting, no faster than thePerseus; but evidently some captains had kept the engines going, in the hope of steaming slowly out of the fog.
“Beastly dangerous,” John West said. “It would be the easiest thing in the world to pile up a ship on this coast—apart from the chance of collision. It is far too near the shore to take chances. We are not five miles out.”
A siren sounded directly ahead: a long, half-heard note at first, and then a quickly-increasing sound; and suddenly the fog-horn of thePerseusbroke out in a wild, continual clamour, incessant and urgent. Passengers rushed up on deck. The other ship was drawing nearer and nearer; so far as sound could testify, she was directly in a line with thePerseus. They heard quick voices on the bridge. From the bow came long shouts of warning.
Norah gripped the rail, feeling her father’s arm come round her in the gloom. Jim came up on the other side, watching keenly, his face lined and anxious. Ordinary danger was one thing; this creeping horror, coming relentlessly out of the unseen, was another matter.
Then the white wall of mist wavered and parted slowly, a dark shape loomed high, and almost upon them they saw a great ship. She was so near that they could see the strained faces on her decks. Her fog-horn was answering thePerseusin a very frenzy of alarm—and suddenly thePerseuswas silent, as if realising the uselessness of warning now. On she came, slowly, slowly; it seemed that by no possibility could she avoid crashing into the huge, helpless liner. They were almost touching; people on both ships held their breath, waiting dumbly for the end.
Then the great black bow edged off as if by magic, and the ship slid past them, only a few yards away. Slowly as she had come, her passing was slower yet; it seemed hours that she was beside them, almost touching, with the risk of her stern swinging to crash into thePerseus. But no crash came. The fog took her and swallowed her up as mysteriously as she had come.
“Phew-w!” whistled Grantham. “I don’t want anything nearer than that!”
Norah was shaking a little. A lady passenger further up the deck was indulging in mild hysterics, to the indignation of the doctor and her husband’s deep shame. The fog-horn broke out again in the long monotonous wail, at half-minute intervals, that had gone on all day.
They sat on deck, wrapped in rugs, watching. No one wanted to go down—bad enough in the open, it was better to be there, and to see as much as could be seen. Now and then a little breeze came, and the wall of mist parted ever so little, blowing away in trails like white chiffon; and once, in one of these moments, they caught a glimpse of a sailing ship, drifting by, with bare, gaunt masts. The fog closed round her again, blotting her out utterly.
Then, towards evening, there came a quick succession of sharp hoots, unlike anything they had heard; and a motor-launch came into view and darted alongside, under the bridge. A man in blue uniform shouted swift questions.
“I’ll bring you a tug!” he cried, at last.
They disappeared again, and the delay that followed seemed intolerably long. Then the launch hooted its way back, followed by a bluff shape that resolved itself into a steam-tug. She hung about just ahead. ThePerseuscame slowly to life; the screw throbbed slowly. They began to crawl through the water after the tug. Once she disappeared, running on a little too quickly—and the great liner began to hoot anxiously, like a frightened child crying for its nurse, until the tug came back. So they crawled together through the clinging mist-curtain until dun lights showed ahead, and voices from the shore came to their ears.
“That’s the wharf at Cape Town,” said the doctor. “You have to take it on trust. Why, the fog is thicker here than out at sea!”
They crept in slowly. Passing a ship already docked, they had a weird impression of her, apparently hanging in the air—a grotesque ghost of a ship, the surrounding mist like the vague halo that sometimes shows round the moon. She was only a dim wraith, her powerful electric lights glimmering like smoky lamps, although they were within biscuit-throw of her. Even when alongside the wharf they could not see the people waiting ashore; voices came up to them clearly, but it was impossible to see to whom they belonged. So, like an exceedingly helpless invalid, thePerseuscame into port.
“Eight o’clock,” said Mr. Linton, consulting his watch. “H’m; we’ve sat in that old fog for eighteen solid hours.”
“Isn’t it a relief not to hear the fog-horns?” Norah said. “Daddy, are we going ashore?”
“I don’t know,” hesitated her father. “It hardly seems worth while to-night.”
Jim, who had been away, returned quickly.
“I’ve seen the second officer,” he said. “It’s awfully unsatisfactory. Orders are to leave here at daylight, or as near it as can be managed, and they’re going to work cargo all night. Poor beggars! they’ve all been on duty for eighteen hours at least—and the captain has never been off the bridge during the time.”
“Poor fellows!” Norah said. “I think, too, it’s poor us! Then we won’t see Cape Town at all?”
“MacTavish advises us to go ashore,” Jim answered. “He says that the fog may not be so bad in the city itself—it’s some distance away—and that if we take the mountain tram ride we’ll probably get right above it. In any case, the ship will be unbearably noisy, as they have to handle cargo.”
“Then we may as well go,” declared Mr. Linton; and Norah fled delightedly to get ready.
They stumbled through the fog across confused yards and round dim buildings, and presently found a train waiting in a casual fashion by a platform which appeared to be part of the street. They climbed in, and the train woke up hastily and decided to go, as if encouraged by their arrival. Its progress, however, was less hasty than its departure. The fog impeded it, and it crept towards the city with a shrieking of the engine, a grinding of brakes, and a rattling of the carriages, which made thePerseusseem luxuriously peaceful by comparison.
“We’ll drive back,” said Mr. Linton tersely.
The fog was much lighter in the town itself. Passers-by in the street were heard grumbling at it—but to the mist-sodden seafarers who had wallowed in its heart for eighteen hours, it seemed only an echo of a fog. The streets were bright, well-lit, and crowded. Natives were not so frequent as in Durban, and there was a general air of prosperity. Wally exhibited signs of alarm at the spectacle of more than one top-hat.
“I suppose we’ll have to get used to them in England,” he said, dismally. “I feel in my bones, Jim, that I’ll see you in one yet!”
“Me!” said Jim. “I’ll have to turn undertaker first!”
A friendly policeman directed them to their tram, and soon they were rattling along quiet suburban streets, where the fog was thicker than in the city—or where there were fewer electric lights to dispel its gloom. The suburbs, however, did not last long; they emerged from brick and mortar regions into open bush country, and began to climb into what seemed the heart of the mountains.
They climbed from mist into light. As the tram wormed its way higher and higher, they left the fog below them—looking back, they could see it lying in a dense bank, blotting out the city. But the travellers came out above it, and into the pure radiance of a perfect moon, that sailed in a clear sky of deep blue, dotted with innumerable stars. The moon was full, and her light, in the clear mountain air, was almost dazzling. It showed them the sinuous tramway track, curving away into the heart of the bush, which stretched on either side, dark and fragrant; it lit up deep glens and clefts, and high peaks that towered overhead—the “Twelve Apostles,” Signal Hill, the Lion’s Head—all black and rugged against the perfect blue of the sky.
Sometimes a wind blew up strongly as they climbed, bringing with it masses of fog from below, which surged lovingly round the tall peaks, rested upon them, and often drew a soft veil over them, hiding them altogether; and then it surged again, and was tossed up in masses like breaking waves, until it fled altogether, dropping back into the valleys, and leaving the peaks clear. The bush on either side grew more and more dense, and mingled with the rugged crags into a scene of extraordinary wildness. It was impossible to imagine that they were near a great city—not in the heart of the Africa that held “King Solomon’s Mines.” Were not these, indeed, the “Mountains of the Moon”?
Nobody spoke much, for, indeed, the wonder of the journey took away speech, even from the boys. But just as they were turning back towards civilisation a thick veil of mist hovered over the edge of Table Mountain, standing clear-cut against the blue and silver sky—and then settled upon it and draped it, hanging in uneven folds of purest white.
“There!” said David Linton. “You’ve seen the famous ‘Table-cloth’ come down on Table Mountain!”
Norah leaned against him, putting her hand in his.
They ran down to the city—found a restaurant where coffee was still obtainable, and then a motor that hurried them smoothly back to the ship. The fog was still heavy at the wharf. ThePerseuswas noisy with the clamour of cargo-machinery and shouting men, and the decks hummed with hawkers, chaffering over ostrich feathers and native karosses and curios. There was little sleep for anyone on board.
Very early next morning they were off. The fog hung densely over the city. The tug took them out through the dim harbour, and beyond to the open sea—and about twenty miles out they suddenly ran out of the fog-belt into sunlight, and blue sea and sky, all sparkling to greet them.
The captain, heavy-eyed after his long vigil, paused beside Norah’s deck-chair.
“Well, Miss Norah—you evidently weren’t meant to see the beauties of Cape Town!”
“I don’t know,” said Norah, soberly. “I think I had the best view of all. And it was worth the fog!”
CHAPTER XVI.
THE passengers of the good shipPerseuswere holding what they bravely called a gymkhana. Their numbers had been slightly reinforced in South Africa; some people had left the ship, but those who had joined had brought the total to nearly forty. The newcomers included two or three cheerful girls, and some energetic young Englishmen, who declared frankly that they found the ship far too quiet, and entered with vigour in the process of waking things up. They organised dances in the moonlight, to the strains of the captain’s gramophone; concerts, at which most people performed extremely badly, amidst the enthusiastic plaudits of the audience; and finally a sports committee, which drew up an ambitious programme of deck-game competitions, to culminate in a “special-event” day. No one was allowed to stand out. The quiet ones grumbled and fled to the sanctity of the boat-deck—where no games were permitted—in the intervals of making themselves look more or less foolish at deck billiards or bull-board. The younger members grew enthusiastic by force of example, and things went merrily enough until the day of the final display.
The officers—especially the captain and the doctor—looked with approval on the new activity. At all times the journey up the West Coast of Africa is dull and long. No ports are touched at between Cape Town and Las Palmas; and it was quite possible that even the latter would be forbidden thePerseusby wireless orders by the time she arrived at the Canary Islands, since German ships were known to be active in the neighbourhood. The long and dreary stretch included the crossing of the Equator, and a spell of tropical heat which, if not so bad as the Red Sea, was apt to be sufficiently trying under ordinary circumstances, but ten times more so when complicated by the lack of fresh air entailed by war precautions. Therefore the Captain, keeping a silent watch on his passengers’ nerves, and the doctor, directing his guardianship more particularly to their livers, smiled on the games, and incited them to antics yet more enlivening.
War seemed very far away. The first few days out from Cape Town had been hard to bear in their complete isolation from news—especially as Cape Town had provided an assortment of rumours, principally unconfirmed, which gave unlimited food for tantalising speculation. But gradually war talk slackened for lack of any food, and people agreed that it was really more practical to be as busy as possible, and wait as patiently as might be for definite news at Las Palmas. What risk there was, was accepted as part of the general routine; to speculate on it was useless, to worry about it as practical as worrying over a possible earthquake or cyclone. Any smoke on the horizon might be a German man-of-war; it might also be a peaceful British tramp steamer, jogging down to Australia. But they were far off their course, and scarcely a sign of a ship had been seen since leaving Africa—two or three dark smoke smudges many miles off, a timber ship which went close by them, and once a collier, with a couple of lighters in tow: useful black slaves, the captain said, waiting to coal British cruisers. All the coast was well patrolled by the Allies’ ships; they kept out of sight, but sometimes the wireless operator, listening at his own silent instrument, heard their code signals, comfortably close at hand.
The gymkhana was more remarkable for energy than for any special skill. It drew a crowded house, most of the audience being required from time to time as performers—a circumstance that is apt to restrain criticism, since critics can be really untrammelled only when pleasantly certain of not having to face the limelight themselves. There had been potato-races and obstacle-races; they had chalked the pig’s eye—a competition won gloriously by Mr. Linton, who had at least succeeded in placing the eye in the porker’s snout, whereas no other blindfolded competitor had gone nearer than his hind leg. Gentlemen in sacks had run, and tripped, and fallen, and writhed helplessly, amid unfeeling laughter; ladies had driven blindfolded gentlemen between zig-zag rows of bottles, with the customary results to the bottles; other gentlemen, greatly daring, had raced for parcels of feminine attire, and, donning it in a manner highly unscientific and interesting, had held it about them miserably, and fled for home. There had been races in pairs, wherein ladies had to tie their partners’ neckties and light their cigarettes; blindfolded fighting; egg-and-spoon scurries—in short, all the paraphernalia of what the natives of India call a “pagal” gymkhana—pronouncing the adjective “poggle” and signifying by it a revel of much buffoonery.
It was nearing tea-time when the competitors took their places for the last event, which the doctor, much overheated by his exertions as umpire, called a concession to the fine arts. Music was its basis, and it was run in pairs—the lady sitting meekly on a camp-stool while her partner raced to her, and whistled in her ear a tune which it was her part to recognise. This done, she wrote down the name and handed the document to the whistler, who turned and raced back with it. It was a competition in which musical ability was less likely to score than an ample supply of breath and fleetness of foot.
Norah and Wally were paired together, their most dangerous opponents being Mr. Grantham and a cheery Cape Town damsel whose acquaintance with rag-time airs was little short of the black art. Jim and his partner had survived one heat, but had gone down in the second—owing to the lady’s insisting that “Pop Goes the Weasel” was “God Save the King.” Jim had liked his partner, and his faith in human nature was shaken. He exhorted Norah to “show more sense,” and took his place by the rail to cheer her and Wally on to great deeds.
There were three couples, their male halves being somewhat equally matched in speed. Norah braced herself to her task as they tore down the deck to the waiting ladies on the camp-stools—feeling in her heart that she would much rather race than wait. There was too much responsibility about the feminine part of the business—since no man would ever admit that he had failed to whistle correctly. The flying figures arrived, pell-mell—she lent an anxious ear to Wally’s musical efforts, thankfully recognised “Tit Willow,” and saw him turn to race away, at the same moment that Grantham received his document and started home.
“What tune did you hear?” she asked Edith Agnew, the Cape Town girl.
“Oh, an easy one—‘Tipperary.’ But isn’t it hard to hear!—they puff and pant, and every one laughs, and the sea is noisy—and altogether it’s enough to make Wagner sound like a musical comedy! And they look so funny I can only laugh, instead of writing. Look—it’s a dead heat, I believe!”
It was—Grantham and Wally breasted the tape together, and returned presently, somewhat crestfallen.
“We’re awfully puffed, but it’s the last thing on the programme—we might as well run it off,” Grantham declared. “You don’t mind, Wally?”
“Not a bit—my cheerful lay is naturally so unintelligible that a little puffing can’t hurt it much,” Wally laughed. “Come on—ready, Norah?”
They went back to the starting-point and received the umpire’s instructions; then came flying down the deck. Norah struggled hard to recognise a tune that sounded like no melody she had ever heard, partly because it would persist in mingling with the one which Grantham was whistling desperately to Miss Agnew. Wally came to the end of the verse, and began again, breathlessly. Light dawned on Norah in a flash.
“Oh—I am stupid!” she uttered, grasping her pencil and scribbling “Bonnie Dundee” wildly. A half-second earlier Miss Agnew gave vent to a shriek of intelligence, and wielded a distraught pencil. It was almost a neck-and-neck race—but Grantham was a nose ahead.
“You’ve won!” said Norah, laughing. “Well done!” They shook hands cheerfully; to stare in surprise, a moment later, when the doctor picked up his megaphone and announced in stentorian tones that the winners were Miss Linton and Mr. Meadows.
“But how?” queried Norah. All the spectators had left their places—they were the centre of a laughing group. Wally arrived, triumphant, and pumped her hand anew.
“That was my telegraphic partner!” laughed Grantham, in mock wrath. “I whistled ‘Rule Britannia’ like a nightingale, and all she wrote was this.” He held out a crumpled scrap of paper with “Brit” inscribed on it in hieroglyphic letters. “Naturally, the umpire wouldn’t accept it—so they disqualified me.”
“I’m awfully sorry!” Miss Agnew laughed. “I was overcome—and you whistled so very badly—and I was sure Wally meant to start.” She tilted a pretty nose. “I’m sure ‘Brit’ is good enough for that old tune, anyway.”
Jim Linton swung round suddenly.
“Is that the wireless?”
From overhead, as every merry voice hushed to silence, broke out the crisp, familiar crackle—the wireless, spitting its message over the sea. No one moved for a moment. Then came another sound—a long, heavy “Boom-m!” that ran echoing round the horizon. Women screamed, and ran for their babies. Men looked at each other dumbly. The quick spitting of the wireless went on—a tiny sound, following the crashing “Boom,” but even more full of meaning.
“Boom-m-m!” Another heavy crash; and the spell that had fallen on the laughing group of passengers broke suddenly, and there was a stampede round to the starboard side of the ship. Norah, running, found Jim’s hand on her shoulder.
“Steady, kiddie—keep back till we know what it is.”
“I can’t, Jim!”
“Yes, you can—keep Dad back. Wally and I will find out.”
“Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m!”
Ahead of thePerseussomething struck the water heavily, and almost simultaneously great splashes like waterspouts shot up a ship’s length away. Turning the corner of the deck, carried along by the crowd, Norah saw a grey ship lying not far off, so close that she could see the evil mouths of the guns that looked out from her side. Flame and smoke sprang from them as she stopped, breathless. Again the long crash echoed, and water shot into the air from three great splashes near the big liner.
“Good heavens—they’re shelling us!” a man exclaimed.
The passengers huddled together like frightened sheep, uncertain what to do. There had been no signal for boat-drill, and no officer was visible, except upon the bridge. The crackling of the wireless had stopped—and suddenly they saw the Marconi operator spring up the bridge-ladder.
The doctor took swift command.
“Every one muster on the port side!” he shouted. “No need to risk flying splinters here!”
He hustled the women before him, back to the side from which they had come. A few children were crying pitifully; but there was no disorder, and the women obeyed quietly, those who had no children turning to help the mothers. Stewards appeared, and the doctor sent them through the ship to collect stragglers; the stewardesses came up and took their places quietly.
From the bridge, the second officer came hurrying down. He joined the doctor.
“There’s no danger,” he said, so that every one could hear. “They put those shells across our bows to stop us using the wireless—but Grey got a certain amount away first. Then they signalled that they’d sink us if we sent any more; so naturally, we didn’t.”
“What happens now?”
“Their orders are, to follow them at full speed. I don’t know what they mean to do—but the Captain says that every one is to prepare to leave the ship. It may or may not be a case of taking to the boats; they are being got ready now. Not much luggage can be taken, but every one must bring all available rugs and wraps; the nights are cold. Be ready to obey the boat-drill signal.”
Mr. Linton’s party had prepared for such emergency early in the voyage; it was only a few minutes before they were ready, suit-cases locked and wraps rolled up. Jim came to carry up Norah’s belongings to the deck. She cast a wistful look round the cabin. It had grown very homelike, and the familiar photographs of Billabong and Bosun and her school chums looked curiously out of place and forlorn amidst this sudden realisation of war. She shut the door upon them with a little sigh.
On deck everything was as usual, save that sailors were working busily at the boats, provisioning them, and getting them in readiness to swing out from the davits. The horizon was empty of ships; only ahead of them steamed the grey German warship, her smoke making dark plumes across the sky. ThePerseusfollowed meekly. Norah could see the captain on the bridge—and a great throb of pity for him surged up within her.
“He’s so responsible!” she said. “And he has such a lovely ship. It must be dreadful to think of losing her.”
She looked up and down the long lines of the deck; at the towering mass of the funnel overhead. It seemed incredible that so great a ship was presently to be sunk; as easily might one believe that any splendid cathedral could disappear suddenly into the ground. For weeks they had lived on thePerseus, until she had grown like a second home to them, as fixed and stable a thing as any hotel. Now she was doomed; they would fire shells or torpedoes at her, and she would suddenly vanish, never to be heard of again. The blue sea would ripple gaily over the place where she lay—the sea on which she had ridden in splendour. It was too horrible to believe.
Norah looked up at the bridge again, and saw Captain Garth’s set face. He was gazing downwards at his ship. When his eyes met hers he smiled and waved his hand slightly, and though Norah greatly despised tears, she felt a hot lump in her throat and turned away to the rail, blinking very hard. If it were dreadful for her to think of the great “crack” liner going down, what must it be for the man whose pride and responsibility she was?
They stood in a little knot on the deck, watching. Both ships were going at full speed; but presently a line of flags fluttered out on the German ship, they heard the sound of the engine-room telegraph ringing from the bridge, and the throbbing of the machinery of thePerseusstopped suddenly. The German turned, steaming down upon them. A little way off, the warship hove to and lowered a boat, containing two officers as well as the crew. ThePerseusswung out a gangway to meet it.
The boat shot across the narrow strip of sea intervening between the two vessels. The crew were stolid men, with heavy faces; they paid no attention to the jeers or the questions of the crew of thePerseusas they rocked on the lazy swell beside her. Their officers sprang quickly up the gangway, keen-looking men, very trim and alert. They cast a quick glance over the passengers, and disappeared up the bridge ladder.
“Overhauling the ship’s papers,” the doctor said.
“Well, they can’t sink us while these men are on board!” remarked an old lady, comfortably. She took out her knitting—a khaki muffler—and began to work. “I do so like the German method of knitting—and now I feel it my duty to use the English fashion. It’s so annoying!” she confided to Norah. Her needles clicked busily.
Presently the two German officers came down the ladder, followed by Captain Garth. They went to the Marconi-room, where the young sentry stood his ground for a moment, ludicrously undecided, changing to immense relief as the captain waved him aside with a curt nod. There came sounds of altercation in the Marconi-room—and the young operator, Grey, came out with a thunderous face and joined the passengers.
“Brutes!” he said, explosively. “They’ve dismantled the apparatus and kicked me out—one of the great beasts threatened me with a revolver. Wish I’d had one myself!”
“A jolly good thing you hadn’t, young man, if that’s how you feel about it!” remarked the doctor.
There was a wretched feeling of helplessness over every one. To make short work of the two strange men would have been so easy; to think of doing it so futile, with the grey warship lying near, her guns trained on thePerseus. They waited as patiently as they might until the officers reappeared; and presently a message came to them to muster on the boat deck.
They faced the Germans somewhat defiantly, the most placid of the company being the old lady with the muffler, who knitted serenely, after casting one glance of withering comprehensiveness at their captors. The Germans held the passenger-list, and ran over it quickly. They spoke English without difficulty, and with scarcely any accent.
“There is one name not present,” the senior said; “Henry Smith, booked for London. Where is he?”
“In his cabin,” Captain Garth answered curtly,
“Is he ill?”
“No. He is a prisoner.”
“So?” said the German, his eye lighting with interest. “You will have him brought here.” He talked to his companion in their own language while the captain gave the necessary orders.
There was a little buzz among the passengers. Many of them had not heard of Mr. Smith; those who had done so had acquired a vague idea that he had left the ship at Durban. Now, as he came up the deck between two stewards, every one craned forward to see him. He was pale and rather thin, and the glance he cast upon Jim and Wally was scarcely one of affection. Then he broke into a wide smile at the sight of the familiar uniform, and uttered a quick German greeting.
The two officers showed some astonishment, which was merged in sympathetic interest as Mr. Smith uttered floods of Teutonic eloquence. Once they glanced keenly at the two boys—and Jim felt a thrill of thankfulness that Norah’s part in the discovery of the spy had not been revealed to Mr. Smith, who had evidently devoted his leisure in his cabin to the solace of bearing malice. Finally the senior officer turned to Captain Garth.
“Herr Schmidt will return with us,” he said. “Later, we shall require as prisoners these two lads, the officer Dixon, and those of the passengers who are military officers. Meanwhile you will have boats and passengers ready, and prepare to leave the ship at daylight, on receipt of further signals. Until then you will follow us. You will show no lights whatever, and should you attempt to signal, we will sink you without further notice. We will now inspect the crew—the passengers are dismissed.”
David Linton stepped forward.
“You cannot mean to take my son and his friend prisoners, sir,” he said. “They are only boys.”
“Only boys!” said the German, curtly. “Boys of their age and physique are with the colours in our army to-day. But for their attack on Herr Schmidt——”
Mr. Smith shot a rapid sentence at his countrymen. The officer laughed unpleasantly.
“So?—going home to the army, are they? They will certainly be better out of the way, then. That will do, sir—you will only earn them increased severity.” And Mr. Linton, certain in his angry bewilderment of only one thing—that he had made matters worse—found himself dismissed, with a finality that forbade another word.
On the lower deck the Billabong quartet faced each other, at first dumbly.
“Cheer up,” Jim said, at last, with an effort. “It’s hard luck, of course, but they aren’t likely to do anything beyond imprisoning us. Bother old Smith!”
“I wish to goodness we’d left him alone!” said Norah, miserably.
“No, you don’t—and we don’t,” was Jim’s sturdy answer. “I’ll always be glad we stopped his little game—at any rate we’ll have had that little scrap of the war! And we may escape—you never can tell—and come careering over to London to find you. It will be all experience, as you used to say!”
Norah shivered. She had never thought that the “experience” of which they used to talk so light-heartedly would mean this.
“I wouldn’t mind so much, to know you were really in Germany,” Mr. Linton said. “But to be on that abominable ship——!” He shot an angry, anxious glance at the grey cruiser. Too well he knew her destiny—to prowl the sea, a pirate in all but name, harassing British shipping until she herself was sunk. There would be no getting back to Germany for her—and no consideration for British prisoners on board of her when the inevitable end came. He looked at the two boyish faces, his heart full of blank despair.
Wally glanced over the rail. The German boat was returning to the warship. Mr. Smith sat in the stern with the two officers—a podgy embodiment of triumph.
“Well, the laugh may be on our side,” he said, cheerfully. “Anyhow, we needn’t pull long faces over it; I’m hoping for another chance to get even with old Smithy. Don’t you worry, sir—I’ll look after little Jimmy for you!”
Jim grinned down on him affectionately. But to David Linton came memories of Edward Meadows’ anxious face—of his last request, to look after the little brother who was “such a kid.”
“I’ll work every means in my power to get you both back,” he said, huskily. “Meanwhile, I can give you plenty of money; and I know you will both try to keep on good terms with them; you’ll be better treated if you do. The German sailors do seem disposed to behave as decently as possible.”
“There are other people a long way worse off than we are,” Jim said. “Dixon’s married, I know; he has a wife and kiddie in Glasgow. And Major Edwards and Captain Field have got to leave their wives on thePerseus—my aunt, isn’t it rough on poor little Mrs. Field, with that troublesome baby!”
Norah jumped.
“That’s my pet baby!” she said. “I’ll go and see if I can take him for a while.”
She fled to the Fields’ cabin. Captain Field, a tall, delicate man with quiet ways that Norah liked, was sitting on the couch, his arm round his wife. The baby was howling dismally, as if he understood. Mrs. Field, white and tearless, was trying vainly to rock him to sleep.
“I’ll take him, Mrs. Field,” Norah said breathlessly. “He’ll be quite all right—don’t you worry.”
Mrs. Field protested feebly.
“You want to be with your boys yourself,” she said. “He will go to sleep presently.”
“He’ll be much happier on deck,” Norah said. She grasped the baby’s outdoor attire in one hand, tucked him under the other arm, and fled. The boys and her father had established themselves in a corner of the deck-lounge; and there the baby sat on a table and played with Jim’s keys, and became extraordinarily cheerful and contented. Somehow, he helped them all.
“The nicest yearling I ever saw!” said Jim, when at last it grew dusk. He rose, giving the baby one finger, on which he fastened with interest, evidently regarding it as edible. “No, you don’t, young man; I’ve got to go and put my things together; it’s time we did it, Wal. You’ll come, too, dad?”
David Linton nodded.
“I’ll go and tub the baby,” Norah said.
She bathed him in one of the big bathrooms, to his great amazement and delight; and then, wrapping him in a big, soft bath-towel until he looked like a hilarious chrysalis, she took him back to his mother. Mrs. Field looked better when she opened the door to receive the sweet-smelling bundle.
“You’ve bathed him?—oh, Norah, you dear!”
“He was so good,” said Norah. “Of course, he hasn’t his nightie on, Mrs. Field.”
“I must dress him altogether,” the poor little wife said. “You know we have to take to the boats at daylight.”
“Yes, of course,” Norah said. “Oh, and Dad said I was to tell you, Captain Field, that he has made arrangements for Mrs. Field and Tommy to come in our boat, in—in the boys’ place; and they will be in his special charge—and Tommy is mine. So you mustn’t worry.”
“Thanks,” said Captain Field; and could say no more. He put out his, hand and shook Norah’s very hard.
Dinner was served as usual, and people tried to eat. The captain came in late, and made a little speech between the courses. He was immensely sorry for them all, he told them; it was the fortune of war, and there was nothing to be said. Everything possible would be done for their care and safety, and he told them that he did not doubt that they would aid him in any measures he could take. Breakfast would be served half an hour before daylight; they would be called in time. He urged them all to go to bed early and try to get a good night’s rest. The German ship had just signalled renewed warnings against any lights showing—he wished them to remember that they were completely in the power of an enemy who would sink them without hesitation if orders were disobeyed. He thanked them for their calm behaviour in the afternoon and, in advance, for the equal calmness he knew he might expect in the morning. “We’re not a fighting crowd, but we don’t show the white feather!” finished the captain, abruptly. He gave a jerky little bow and left the saloon.
“Poor dear young man!” said the old lady who knitted, wiping her eyes.
There was very little sleep on board thePerseusthat night. People talked together in little groups. All luggage was already stowed in the boats, and nothing remained to be done. In a corner of the deck the Billabong family stayed, not talking very much, since there seemed so little to say, but finding some comfort in nearness to each other. Wally had written letters to his brothers and given them into Mr. Linton’s keeping.
“Norah ought to turn in,” Jim said, at length. “It’s all very well for us, for we’ll be in some sort of comfort on the German ship. But it makes me sick to think of you two—in an open boat. You ought to get all the sleep you can.”
“Oh, we shall be all right,” his father said. “It’s such calm weather—and we are no great distance from Teneriffe. We can soon get into the track of ships, and the chances are that we shall not have to spend a night in the open.”
“And if we do, it won’t hurt us,” Norah said. “Don’t you bother about us, Jimmy.”
“Well, go to bed, anyhow,” the boy said. “You’re tired as it is. You may as well feel fit when you leave in the morning.” So Norah went off obediently; and soon Wally followed her example, leaving Mr. Linton and his son to pace the deck together for hours—in silence, most of the time. The ship’s bells had been forbidden, and there was nothing to mark the passing of the night. ThePerseuscut through the dark water, following her captor, whose grey shape loomed near. Their heavy thoughts went ahead, picturing the parting that must come with the dawn.