The Canvey received her wireless instructions to this effect at noon. Without delay the awnings were furled, steam raised for seventeen knots, and the anchor weighed. The knowledge that the destroyers Complex and Calyx were under orders to leave Gibraltar for the Rio del Oro coast was no small factor in determining the Canvey's hurried departure.
No longer need she to steam slowly, with a red ensign fluttering aft, and her officers and crew rigged out like members of the humble but all-important Mercantile Marine. With her hitherto concealed guns showing their teeth and the white ensign streaming proudly to the breeze, she could dash into the estuary of the Wad-el-Abuam, summon the Alerte to surrender, and in default send her to the bottom for all time. But she must be first upon the scene. Should her friendly rivals, the heavily-armed Complex and Calyx, forestall her, then the Canvey's motto would be the single word, Ichabod.
Two hours after leaving St. Vincent, Lieutenant-Commander Raxworthy was conferring with Broadmayne, who happened to be officer of the watch, when the leading telegraphist approached, saluted, and tendered a signal-pad.
The owner read the message. The corners of his mouth dropped.
"We're done out of a job, Broadmayne," he remarked. "The Alerte's settled with."
"Our destroyers, sir?"
Raxworthy shook his head.
"Not an Andrew job this time," he replied. "Read this."
The message was a wireless signal en clair as follows:
"From s.s. Bronx City of Boston, Mass., from Accra to Lisbon. Encountered pirate vessel Alerte in lat. 19° 17' N., long. 18° 23' W. Alerte fired three rounds and attempted to close. Bronx City ported helm, striking Alerte amidships. Alerte sank in three minutes. Four survivors. Am proceeding.—ADAMS. Master."