CHAPTER XIX
BILLY'S FLYING-BOAT
"BY all the powers, Slogger! You here?"
Farrar "brought up all standing," face to face with one of the last persons he expected to encounter at Malta. He was on his way up the Strada Reale in Valetta when the cheery hail greeted him.
"Cheer-o, Holcombe!" he replied. "This is great—absolutely. What's doing?"
"Brought the 'Antipas' into the Grand Harbour yesterday morning," explained Hugh. "We left a week ago under sealed orders, and have been pelting along at twenty-five knots practically ever since, except for a short stop at Gib. Something's in the wind, Slogger, you mark my words, or they wouldn't send seven modern destroyers up the Straits."
"Pity Greenwood and I weren't given a passage in her," remarked Farrar. "It would have saved a rotten run in one of the slowest old tubs it was ever my luck to sail in—the 'Timon'; know her?"
Holcombe shook his head. "What's your packet?" he inquired.
"The 'Zenodorus.'"
"Lucky blighter!" declared Holcombe. "You have a jolly decent skipper. Aubyn's his name, isn't it?"
"Yes," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "From all accounts he's hot stuff. I haven't seen much of him yet. We only joined the ship late last night."
"Where's Bruno?" was Holcombe's next question.
"Left him behind at Penkestle. Greenwood's governor is taking care of him. Didn't seem to like the idea at first. Thought Bruno would be too much of a handful, but before I left he was quite pally with the dog. I should be surprised if he wants to part with him. You see, there was no accommodation on the 'Timon,' so Bruno and I had to 'split brass rags.'"
"It's little use crying over spilt milk, Slogger," continued his chum. "Had I known that you were here and that we were under orders for Malta I could easily have given Bruno a passage. But I'll tell you what I'll do: the storeship 'Gunnybag' is leaving Devonport in about a fortnight. I'll write to young Jolly, who's a pal of mine, and ask him to bring the dog out—that is, if you want him?"
"Thanks, rather," replied Farrar warmly.
"Come along to the Naval Club," suggested Holcombe, and the two chums made their way towards the rendezvous of the members of the Senior Service in Valetta.
"Do you know that chap?" asked the R.N. sub, indicating a tall, supple-framed, deeply tanned officer in the uniform of a flight-lieutenant, who was replacing a cue after the victorious termination of a "hundred up" with a tubby, round-faced engineer-lieutenant.
"Can't say I do," replied Farrar.
"Come along, then, old bird," exclaimed Holcombe, grasping his friend's arm. "I say, Barcroft, let me introduce my pal Farrar."
The two men shook hands.
"Seen you from a distance," remarked Farrar. "When you strafed the Hun that strafed us. I was on the old 'Tantalus.'"
A smile swept across Billy Barcroft's face.
"That so?" he queried. "The U-boat's rash persistence gave me a fine chance. So you are the Farrar my gov'nor mentioned in his last letters?"
"He was stopping in the same house—with Greenwood's people," explained the R.N.V.R. sub. "Yes, he looked absolutely top-hole. Grumbled a bit, though, because you didn't say anything in your letter about strafing U 254."
"I see they've let von Loringhoven slip through their fingers," commented Billy. "Wonder if he's been collared yet?"
"Not according to latest reports from home," said Holcombe. "It's a rummy world," he added, breaking off on a fresh tack. "Yesterday evening I ran full tilt into you, Barcroft, and now I've just barged into this child."
"Did you bring Blimp 144A out here?" asked Farrar.
Barcroft made a deprecatory gesture with his hands.
"I'm dead off blimping," he explained. "It's not bad sport, but, somehow, there's something lacking. S'pose it's the knowledge that you're held aloft by a gas-bag. If anything goes wrong you can't 'plane down,' you know. Your only chance is to jump mighty quick, and parachutes have a knack of letting you down in more senses than one. I saw a Hun crash.... his 'chute refused to open. It wasn't a pretty sight."
"So what are you doing now?" inquired Farrar.
"Oh, now? Just yarning," replied Billy, his ivory teeth gleaming as he smiled.
"Quite so," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "So please carry on. You are still in the Air Service?"
"Rather," declared Barcroft emphatically. "Yes, I felt a bit fed up with the old Blimp, so I got a pal of mine up-topsides to put in a word for me. Result: I've been given a brand-new flying-boat. Had to bring her right across France without a stop, and then on here from Marseilles. Yes, with luck things ought to hum in the Mediterranean. Fritz has been having too easy a time recently—and our patrol boats haven't been idle."
"Lucky dog!" exclaimed Holcombe. "She must be a craft to be proud of."
"Like to have a look at her?" continued Billy. "She's lying off Floriana."
He glanced at his watch.
"One o'clock," he announced. "There's a steamboat from the Customs Landing at two. You'll be able to do the honours to my little packet, and I'll put you alongside your respective ships by eight bells."
About half way to the landing-place the three officers found that their progress through the already crowded street was impeded by a mob of Maltese—the men in sombre garments that contrasted with the motley attire usually sported by the natives; the women in black, with the characteristic head-dress that somewhat resembled the Spanish mantilla. Surging up the steps of the steep strada the "Malts" were importuning every one they met, holding out metal cups for the expected reception of coins.
"What's the move, I wonder?" remarked Holcombe, as the two friends stood aside to let the throng sway past.
"Dunno," replied Barcroft. "It reminds me of Barborough Wakes."
"I can tell you," said a civilian, a dockyard official, who had overheard Holcombe's query. "Do your remember that case of Angelo Zurrico? No; you have not been long in Malta? Zurrico shot another Maltese—sort of vendetta business. He was taken red-handed and sentenced to death. His friends, unable to save his life by obtaining a reprieve, are doing the next best thing according to their lights. They are collecting money to pay for masses and a new silk rope."
"Eh?" ejaculated Billy incredulously.
"Fact," continued his informant. "Custom of Malta, you know. Every condemned criminal is provided with a silk halter if his pals can raise the wind. Also, another quaint idea, the fellow selected to do the hangman's job is at once put under arrest—partly for his own protection in case the relatives of the about-to-be executed man should take it into their heads to knife him, and also to prevent him running away. But to see the Malts at their best I'd advise you to be here for Carnival, if you are able."
The officers thanked their informant, and, the crowd having passed by, resumed their interrupted walk. At the Custom House steps a launch attached to the seaplane base was in attendance, and the run up the Grand Harbour began.
"There she is!" exclaimed Barcroft proudly, pointing to a dark-grey object lying on the surface of the water of a sheltered creek.
At first sight Farrar saw what appeared to be an exaggerated tadpole floating on the water. The flying-boat was at least eighty feet in length, with a blunt, rounded bow and a bulging body for'ard, gradually tapering to a narrow, slightly up-turned stern. Being broadside on the immense wing-spread of her triplanes was hardly noticeable until the launch drew nearer.
"Come aboard," was Billy's invitation, "only please mind your beetle-crushers. I don't want my mahogany planking scratched."
The flying-boat, on the bows of which was painted the name "Avenger," was the triumph of expert brains and painstaking workmanship. The hull was built of double-skinned mahogany with a layer of oiled silk between the outer diagonal and inner fore and aft planks, the skin being securely fastened to elm timbers and ribs. Underneath, although for the present invisible, were six hydroplane steps to facilitate the boat's ascent when "taking off" from the surface.
Wide waterways formed the deck, the sheer being broken by the raised gun platform for'ard, and, immediately in its wake, the conning tower and navigation cabin; 'midships the motor-room and petrol tanks, aft stores and provisions. Four light but powerful guns of the Cleland Davis 5-in. non-recoil type, aerial torpedo dropping gear, and a pair of searchlights comprised the attacking and defensive armament.
Lightness compatible with strength was everywhere evident, yet the tremendous bulk that had to be raised by the joint action of the planes and the four propellers, actuated by ten motors each of 200 h.p., was not far short of fifty tons. While water-borne the flying-boat was propelled by a single propeller coupled to a 160 h.p. petrol motor.
"What's her crew—how many?" inquire Farrar.
"Eighteen all told," replied Barcroft. "We work in watches. Kirkwood, my flight-sub, takes the port watch. He's gone down to Bighi this afternoon to look up an old pal, Waynsford by name, who is convalescing after a touch of Maltese fever."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Farrar enthusiastically; "she is a ripper. I like that idea of a fore-and-aft canopy. Wish I had a chance of taking on this sort of job."
"You never know your luck," answered Billy. "For the present, however, I suppose you must make the best of things on the 'Zenodorus.' If you have a chance give my regards to your skipper. He's an old chum of mine, I must look him up at the first opportunity."
"Why not this afternoon?" asked Holcombe, "You are going back with us in the launch?"
"Unfortunately, no," replied Barcroft. "I'll send you back, but I cannot get away after six bells. We're giving a display for the edification of the Commander-in-Chief and his staff. Meanwhile, let's go across to the mess; you fellows must be wanting lunch—I do."