We altered that British-built Yankee clipper from stem to stern, with concealed places for our guns, rifles, grenades, bombs, and other armament, with special quarters for prisoners, two ultra-modern 500-horse-power motors to fall back on in case of calm or when in a big hurry, a tank holding 480 tons of fuel oil, another tank containing 480 tons of sweet water, and provisions for a cruise of two years.
In addition to 400 bunks for prospective "guests," I had special de luxe quarters made for "visiting" captains and mates. These were spacious cabins to accommodate two or three. We also designed a separate dining saloon for them, with an assortment of books and magazines in French and English, and a gramophone with late English and French records. War or no war, I still considered all sailors my pals, and had my own ideas as to how our prisoners should be treated. A sailor is a sailor, no matter what his nationality, and if I took any prisoners I wanted them to feel as though they were my guests.
Then, of course, we had to arrange quarters for my crew of fighting marines as well as for the regular seamen required on a clipper of this size. Moreover, we had to do all this so it would not be noticeable to uninvited visitors.
When the work was done, below deck, the Pass of Balmaha was an auxiliary cruiser, armed to the teeth. Above deck she was merely a poetic old sailing ship loaded with a prosaic cargo of lumber.
Timber made the ideal cargo for our purposes, because a ship carrying lumber loads her deck as well as her hold. The piles of lumber even cover your hatches, so no one can go below until you unload. Hence no search crew would be likely to inspect us carefully at sea. They would either order us to Kirkwall, or let us go.
Norway exports lumber and Australia imports it. So we decided to pose as a Norwegian clipper bound for Melbourne. Having served on various Norwegian ships, I spoke Norse, and I knew I would have no difficulty finding men for my crew who could speak it also. But first I had secret doors and hatches cut in the floor of the closets in the officers' cabins, and another under the stove in the galley. From keel to top deck we converted this American three-master into a mystery ship of trick panels and trick doors.
But what would happen if we were ordered into Kirkwall to have our deckload of lumber shifted and our hold searched, you ask? Ah! we were ready for that.
Of course, if an enemy patrol vessel picked us up, a special prize crew of half a dozen men would be put aboard us to make sure we headed for the right port. I would have sixty-four men of my own to handle the small prize crew.
Dinner time would come. I would say to the Britishers: "Gentlemen, may you dine well."
"Cookie," I would call, "serve up the best we've got."