CHAPTER VI
TO SCUTTLE HIS SHIP
"I don't understand, sir," stammered Captain Josiah Quelch, fumbling with the peak of his cap.
"You don't understand," repeated Mr. Fiandersole, head of the shipping firm that bore his name. "You don't understand, eh? Do you want me to put the proposition any plainer? I don't think there's need for that, Captain Quelch."
There was silence for a few moments. Through the heavily curtained door of Mr. Fiandersole's private office came the clicking of half a dozen typewriters.
"It's no use trying to hedge," continued the head director crisply. "You've got to do and do it promptly—this voyage, in fact. I needn't recall to your mind a certain incident——"
"No, sir, you needn't," rejoined the agitated captain. "You've got me fairly on my knees."
"And I jolly well mean to keep you there!" snarled Mr. Fiandersole. "After all's said and done, you benefit. Play me false and you'll get seven years on that other count. And you can't round on me, Captain Quelch. What passes between us is without witnesses, and my word is as good as yours—better, if it comes to a court of law."
"But my certificate, sir," protested the other.
"Your certificate will be safe, provided you don't bungle. And there's a cool three thousand pounds, although I presume some of that will have to be shared out. That's your affair. I don't want to know anything about that. If you fail you're sacked—understand that. And if you open your mouth, my man, remember what I threatened just now. But it's no use beating about the bush—do it."
"Very good, sir," agreed Captain Quelch.
"That's much better, Captain!" exclaimed Mr. Fiandersole cordially. "In deep water, mind—and no loss of life."
* * * * * * *
Twenty-four hours later Captain Josiah Quelch, having dropped the pilot off the Forelands, was well on his way down Channel.
He was far from being in a happy state of mind. For one thing, the s.s. Getalong was in a thick fog. For another, the old tramp was in a decidedly unseaworthy condition. It was a mystery how the Board of Trade ever passed her on the last survey, or how the underwriters had been persuaded to insure her for sixty thousand pounds. But what weighed most heavily upon the captain's mind was the knowledge that by some means or other the Getalong must not reach port again.
"What's the matter with the Old Man, Bill?" inquired the quartermaster, as for the tenth time in half an hour Captain Quelch walked to the weather-side of the bridge and leant over the rails. "Wot 'e expects to see alongside licks me."
A long-drawn wail from the distant shore was borne faintly to the ears of the men on the bridge.
"That's Oldbury Head, Mr. Stevens," remarked Captain Quelch, addressing the second officer. "Ease her off a point. We can't run risks in a fog like this."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the second officer, although he could not account for his superior's excess of caution. Already on the course set, the Getalong would be well clear of all headlands until abreast of St. Catherine's.
With her syren going at frequent intervals, the old tramp wallowed through the mirk of grey, oily sea and grey, clammy fog. Once or twice a foghorn was heard bleating feebly, but not sufficiently near to be considered dangerous.
Again the skipper approached the charthouse, peered at the clock and shuffled to the weather-side of the bridge.
Suddenly the old tramp quivered and appeared to come to a dead stop. Then with an equally abrupt jerk she forged ahead again.
"What's that, Mr. Stevens?" shouted the captain. "Don't say we've run something down?"
"Fo'c'sle there!" hailed the second officer. "Anything under our bows?"
"Nothing, sir," came a husky voice from the invisible fo'c'sle.
"Bit of wreckage, perhaps, sir," suggested Stevens. "Hope she hasn't started a plate—they're none too sound."
"Tell the carpenter to try the well," ordered Captain Quelch. "No—better go yourself, Mr. Stevens. Look alive."
The second officer descended the bridge ladder and went below. In a couple of minutes he was back again.
"She's sprung a leak, sir," he reported breathlessly. "It's pouring in like a sluice."
Before the skipper could make any observation concerning a circumstance that had occasioned him not the slightest surprise, the chief engineer appeared.
"We've done it this time, Cap'n Quelch," he bawled. "Water's over the engine beds. I'll have to shut off steam."
"No chance of plugging the hole?" inquired the Old Man.
"Not the slightest," replied the chief. "Even if we could get at it. It's my belief the bottom's knocked clean out of her."
"Clear away the boats," shouted the Old Man. "Look alive, there."
By this time the firemen were on deck; apparently the engine-room and the boiler-rooms were no longer tenable.
But the chief engineer went back to his post leisurely enough when out of sight. He rather prided himself upon the success of his part of the scheme, which consisted of opening one of the underwater valves and then reversing the engines so suddenly that the terrific strain had created the impression that the old tramp had bumped into something pretty hard and substantial.
Anyway, the chief engineer had done his bit in the dirty piece of work, and salved the remaining rags of an easy conscience by the fact that he would soon be the richer to the tune of a couple of hundred pounds.
Having shut off steam, the chief picked up a small leather handbag, packed with considerable care and forethought a few hours previously, and returned on deck. Already most of the crew were in the boats.
Captain Quelch, likewise equipped with a handbag, and with the ship's papers under his arm, was acting up to the time-honoured traditions of the British Mercantile Marine—to be the last to quit the sinking ship.
"She's not going very fast," he said in an undertone to the chief engineer.
"Man, she'll not last five minutes," was the reassuring reply, as the chief threw one leg over the rail and dropped into a boat alongside.
The Old Man, giving a final glance around, followed his example.
"Give way, lads, smartly!" he exclaimed. "Se's going."
The boat pushed off, the Old Man steering her towards the others, which were barely discernible in the fog.
"Keep together," he ordered. "Got a compass in your boat, Mr. Baldock?"
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the chief officer.
"Then course N. by E.," ordered the captain. "We'll make for Aberstour. 'Tis but a couple of hours' pulling at most."