CHAPTER XVIII
Orders for Cavendish
"Commander wishes to see you, sir!" Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere Cavendish—affectionately known to his brother-officers as "Weeds" and known to have answered readily to the sobriquet "Plug"—acknowledged the marine orderly's announcement.
Cavendish was in a shore-billet—the Royal Naval Barracks at Portsmouth—having just completed a gunnery course at Whale Island. He was speculating upon what manner of craft his next ship would be. He rather fancied a destroyer, but would have been in no way surprised or disappointed if he were appointed to a light cruiser. He was not particularly keen on a battleship. That meant a two-years commission either in home waters or in the Mediterranean—and already, in his comparatively brief career, he had seen enough of Malta and Gib. to express a wish never to see either place again.
Life on a battleship in peace-time, he reflected, was apt to savour of boredom; on a destroyer there were discomforts, but on the whole there were compensations. It gave a fellow a chance to do something that would be impossible on a capital ship. A sub on a destroyer was a responsible person; on a battleship, he was one of a crowd.
For another reason, he was not altogether certain that he had done well in the gunnery course; but he did know that he had obtained a "first" in the torpedo course.
Cavendish unshipped his legs from the messroom fender, threw the morning's paper on the settee, and, after exchanging a jest with some of the other occupants, made his way to the commander's office.
The marine orderly had given no indication of the reason for the interview. It was more than likely that he did not know. That left Cavendish speculating as to the possible reason for the "Bloke's" wish to see him. As far as he knew, there was nothing "up against" him.
Discreetly he knocked at the door of the commander's private room.
Commander Broadstairs was a typical officer of the present-day navy—clean-shaven, alert both physically and mentally, and with a certain brusqueness of manner that at times might be mistaken for churlishness. On the quarter-deck, he would reduce a truculent defaulter to a state of panic by a mere look. On duty he was a living example of discipline and order, both spelt with a capital letter. He knew by heart the whole of the "Sailors' Bible"—the Admiralty Instructions. It was said that the men feared him more than they did the Commodore.
But when off duty, Commander Broadstairs' mantle of routine was shed. He was just an ordinary, jovial fellow—a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. His popularity was not of his own seeking; it was acquired simply by his personality.
"Come in!" he shouted breezily. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Cavendish. Take a seat."
He waved his hand in the direction of an arm-chair by the side of his large knee-hole desk.
The Sub sat down promptly enough. The fact that he, a very junior officer, had not been kept standing at attention, indicated the nature of the forthcoming interview. Probably it concerned the garrison sports, or the united services boxing tournament.
But Cavendish was well out of his reckoning.
"The Commodore has asked me to select a certain number of officers for a particular service," began the Commander. "It occurred to me that for various reasons you would be a suitable candidate. It is, of course, optional whether you accept or otherwise, since it is a matter requiring great discretion and involving a certain amount of risk, not to say danger."
The "Bloke" paused and fixed his eyes upon the young officer.
"Near East, for a dead cert," thought Cavendish, then aloud he said, "I'm quite ready, sir."
"You'd better wait until you've learnt more of the nature of the operations," resumed the Commander, with a wry smile. "Let me see; you served a commission in the South American station, I believe?"
"Yes, sir; midshipman on the Cyclex in 1921-2."
"You know the approaches to Bahia? And San Luiz? And Macapa? Good. Now, describe the anchorage off Port of Spain."
"Weeds" did so, evidently to the Commander's satisfaction.
"Do you know anything of the Rio Guaya?" continued his inquirer.
"No, sir," replied Cavendish promptly. "We never put in there during the whole of the commission. But——"
He paused, thinking that what he was about to say was irrelevant.
"But what?"
"I know a fellow living out in Rioguay, sir. An old shipmate of mine. He went on the beach from the Baffin."
"Name?"
"Peter Corbold, sir."
"H'm; name's familiar. Do you ever hear from him?"
"I had one letter, sir. I answered it—but I haven't heard since."
"What's he doing out there?"
"Mining engineering, I think, sir. He mentioned an uncle in the same profession who had been in Rioguay for some time."
The Commander started on another tack.
"The Admiralty have issued orders for the Cynesephon to be brought forward for commissioning," he announced.
Cavendish sat bolt upright in the chair. Now he was beginning to grasp the drift of things. Hitherto, he had been groping blindly, trying to piece together the baffling questions which the Commander had put to him, in a vain endeavour to discover the nature of the hazardous duty hinted at.
He knew the Cynesephon. She was one of the "P" boats that in 1918 had been converted into a "Q" ship and altered to resemble a South American freighter. She was supposed to be the last word in mystery ships, but an opportunity to use her never arrived, owing to the Armistice.
For certain reasons she had not been scrapped. She was now lying in one of the basins at Portsmouth Dockyard, snugly moored between two battleships of the Thunderer class, which were permanently out of commission.
And now the Cynesephon was to be rescued from the scrap heap and reconditioned—why?
Putting two and two together—the commissioning of the Cynesephon and the Commander's inquiries about Cavendish's service on the South American station—the Sub made a shrewd guess.
For several days there had been reports of British ships bound to and from Brazilian and Argentine ports being overdue. Several of them had been posted at Lloyd's as missing. At first, the general public hardly noticed the information, and until the Press gave prominence to the matter, few people outside the shipping circles had any idea of the persistent increase of the list of vessels overdue.
Then sprang up the usual crop of rumours—a pirate in the South Atlantic providing the favourite topic. Vessels of all nationalities had cleared South American ports and had made their various destinations. None of the masters had reported falling in with a suspicious craft; but it was an ominous fact that, without exception, the overdue vessels had sailed under the Red Ensign.
A question was raised in the House concerning the mysterious disappearance of so many ships, to which the First Lord made a reply that the Admiralty were considering the matter, but did not feel justified in sending H.M. ships, which were urgently required elsewhere, to investigate.
That reply was a "blind". Already orders had been issued for the secret commissioning of the Cynesephon and the dispatch of the light cruiser Basilikon and the 35-knot destroyers Messines and Armentières to the West Indies.
"It is in connection with the missing merchantmen, sir?" asked Cavendish.
"You are right on the target, Mr. Cavendish," said the Commander. "It is. The Cynesephon is to be fully manned by naval ratings, but the crew have to be disguised as merchant seamen. I need not emphasize the fact that this information is absolutely confidential. She will be detailed to cruise between Rio and Port of Spain in the hope that she will be mistaken for a cargo-boat. That is acting upon the supposition that there is a piratical vessel out. Personally, I think that some obscure South American republic has run amok. A light cruiser and a couple of destroyers will be within a hundred miles of the decoy ship, but you will understand that they will only be called to the Cynesephon's assistance if she is in immediate danger of foundering. There is a great chance of her being sunk with all hands before the supporting vessels can arrive on the spot. Now, I think I've hinted enough for you to realize the nature of the operations. Are you a volunteer?"
"I am, sir," was the ready response.
"I thought so," rejoined the Commander. "Here are the names of your new skipper and the officers who have already volunteered. You know most of them, I believe. Well, that's that. Use the greatest discretion. Remember, a chance word may wreck the whole business. And I don't think I'd write to Corbold again if I were you—at least, until you return."
The Commander held out his hand. Fifteen seconds later Sub-lieutenant Cavendish stood in the corridor, hardly able to realize his good fortune.