Verity braced his body against the stoke-hold entrance, struggling.
'We ain't the only ones that must die. N'lis'n. Never mind what the person Ransome told you. You try shooting a torpedo or shell from a hull like this, you'll sink yerselves. N'list'n t' me. . . .'
There was laughter all about him. One of the bullies approached and aimed a blow at his belly, driving him back into the dark stoke-hold, the wads of rag still clutched uselessly in his fists. He lost his footing and almost fell down the iron steps. Ransome, the Colt revolver in his hand, stood in the tiny opening, looking down at his two prisoners. He spoke softly, his words directed forward so that those outside would hardly catch a syllable of them.
'Dammit,' he said, 'if a fellow could win through by pluck without a brain in his head, I swear you'd do it. Now, be so good as to shovel away at that coal like a good chap. By and by you shall see them act a famous drama, "The Death of the Hero", outside your very porthole.'
'I'll see you in hell for this, Ransome!'
Ransome laughed.
'You may indeed, old fellow. But you shall reach that destination a deuced long time before me!'
He laughed again at his own wit. The two bullies, who had driven Verity back down the stoke-hold steps, slammed the iron door tight and closed the heavy bolts on the outside. There was a scraping of boots on the deck overhead, and then a long silence.
'You done it this time, my son,' said Samson, savouring a pet phrase.
'It ain't so bad as that, Mr Samson. I been worse off before. Why, me and Sergeant Martock was prisoners in a heathen fortress with guns pointing at us all round. I was even led out to death there, and still it was all right.'
The nuggets of coal rattled as Samson tossed them from his shovel into the glowing furnace. He grunted derisively.
'P'raps it was all right, there. But this time they ain't going to lead us anywhere. They won't even open that door again. Whatever happens, they got to get rid of us, and once the sea-cocks is open we're first to drown. This hold's the best iron cell a man could build. You can't bust out. Even supposing we could smash holes in them iron plates, we'd only let the sea in. As for that iron door and the bolts, your caper didn't half come a cropper.'
'I know that, Mr Samson. I know all that. I ain't stoopid.'
As he spoke, the engines of the Lady Flora seemed to race briefly, and then the churning paddles stopped, their wake hissing and bubbling into silence. The anchor splashed down into sunlit water.
'It's never fair,' said Samson, 'about pensions. If I'd married Church of England fashion, she'd have my pension. But common-law wives don't count. She ain't got a penny coming. It ain't fair!'
Verity tempered reproof with kindness.
'Mr Samson, it ain't the time to brood over Fat Maudie now. I daresay she's a good girl and true, but we gotta do something about all this!'
'All what?'
'Didn't you 'ear that person Ransome? The Death of the Hero, he said. He bloody admitted it to us! He's so keen to finish Lord William that hell sink that ship with all hands. All hands, Mr Samson, in case you forgotten who else that includes!'
Now that the Lady Flora was at anchor, Samson was sitting on the heaped coal at the edge of the bunker. His elbows were on his knees and his chin in his hands.
'You don't 'alf lend your ear to some fucking rubbish,' he said moodily. 'There's ninety-one guns on that ship, any one of which could blow this hulk out of the water at a full mile range. There's hundreds of jolly jack-tars and two or three companies of Royal Marines armed to the teeth. Only thing is, p'raps your Captain Ransome had a man that he put on board her to set light to the powder magazine or something of the kind.'
Verity shook his head.
'It don't suit. Ransome's the only one who knows the whole score on this. In any case, if it was to be done on board, he'd never bring another boat out here like this. However, he did promise that we should see the whole thing from these little portholes, so he may as well be took at his word.'
Verity eased his way past Samson and clambered once again over the coal.
'Nothing this side,' he announced, 'just miles of empty sea and not a sight of land.'
He returned in a slithering avalanche of broken coal and began to climb up the bunker on the opposite side. For some moments he crouched at the top of the dark mound, peering through the grimy little circle of glass.
'Now that's rum,' he said softly.
'Is it?' said Samson, apparently still thinking of Fat Maudie.
'There ain't no land, but there's three things in the water. There's two quite close together, only a long way off, and then another much bigger, not half so far away.'
'What sort of things?' Samson got up and began to haul himself across the coal. Verity worked the porthole free and opened it for a clearer view. About two hundred yards from the Lady Flora, the first object was a metal, latticework tower, about twelve feet high, riding on a large buoy. It appeared to mark a wreck or an obstruction of some kind. Beyond it, at least half a mile off, floated the two much smaller buoys, each one the size of a man's torso but painted a distinct bright green and apparently bearing a lamp. Presently the two sergeants saw on their left, as though it had come round the stern of the Lady Flora, the white-painted gig, with one of Ransome's seamen rowing and another at the little tiller. A third figure sat in hat and cloak, his back to them, and Verity could not quite decide whether it was Ransome himself or not. Then he and Samson lay there, watching the progress of the little boat as the caps of the Channel waves chopped and smacked against its bows. Verity felt for his watch among the rags and checked the time. It had just gone two in the afternoon. He turned to Samson.
'If it was gone four when we left and almost gone two when we hove to, that's ten hours. She never did more than ten knots and probably not less than eight.'
'Somewhere about eighty miles south-west of Plymouth,' said Samson.
They watched the little gig rowing away from them and saw it pass the latticework tower of the largest and nearest buoy. Though the fires had been damped down in the stoke-hold, the perspiration was still heavy on Verity's round cheeks. He said,
'Supposing that HMS Hero was on this course for Plymouth Dock, and suppose she was expected there about three in the morning. Say she could make fifteen knots. That puts her here at about ten o'clock tonight, p'raps a bit after.'
'I could almost fancy it was smuggling after all,' said Samson. 'Them two green buoys further off, that's just the sort of caper. Fishing buoys that one party ties the cargo to, and then the other fetches it. Why there's even that iron tower there to show them the spot.'
'It ain't a proper tower, Mr Samson, it's floating. And the sea don't half splash about it, too, for such a calm day.'
The rowing boat had passed the latticework structure and was making for the two smaller green buoys. When it reached the first of them, the seamen pulled themselves alongside and began winding in a long chain attached to the buoy.
'Smuggling!' said Samson triumphantly. 'They're hauling up the kegs of brandy or that flash perfume, or whatever it is.'
'No they ain't, Mr Samson. They're taking that bladder in tow!'
Samson looked again. The little gig had made fast the nearer of the two buoys to her stern and was now heading towards the other. Despite the size of the green markers, they were no great weight and the men towed them easily. When both were secure, the rowing-boat began to pull slowly back towards the Lady Flora. But when it reached the tall latticework, which bowed and swayed as its own buoy rode the surge of the tide, the oarsman shipped his oars and the first green marker was unlashed. The iron chain with its cannon-ball weight splashed down, so that the conical buoy rocked and bobbed at its new anchorage. The gig skirted the latticework tower and left the second green buoy anchored on the other side. The three buoys now formed a line, about fifty feet long, with the tall latticework structure in the middle and the green markers equally distanced on either side of it.
As the gig began to pull
away to the Lady Flora, Verity said softly,
'Mr Samson, might you be able to see what the writing is on them green things?'
Samson peered through the flurries of water which burst and dribbled on the glass of the porthole.
'It do go all round,' he said restlessly, 'you see a bit but not all. Board of something. Long word. Stop a bit. M . . . I . . . R. . . .'
'Admiralty,' said Verity abruptly, 'Board of Admiralty. Set out for the battleships to fire between. I seen it done once off Portsmouth when there was a naval review after the Rhoosian War. We of 'er Majesty's Volunteer Rifle Brigade was just landed and had permission to watch from the sea-wall. That's why Ransome come here. He knew the Hero's markers would be set out and that she'd sail this way!'
'Not by dark she won't!'
'Mr Samson! 'ave the goodness to look at them green buoys! There's a light on each! Doncher see? It's for the night shooting! That's what's happening tonight! A display for 'is Highness on the last night out afore HMS Hero docks in Plymouth!'
'Night shooting?' said Samson doubtfully.
'Yes, Mr Samson. Like they did at Portsmouth that time. You have two marker buoys with their green lights. The battleship steams past, broadside on, and lets rip, so the water between the two buoys rises in a great spout where the shells land. Then she steams in a letter "S", curving back, passing between the buoys, steaming through her own spray, turning on the other side to bring her other line of guns to bear, and fires the second salvo. Speed, Mr Samson, accuracy, and a great ship turning on her heel like a dancing-girl. You no idea how our lads cheered 'em. A sight for 'is 'ighness, ain't it?'
'If the 'ero goes between them two buoys now,' said Samson, 'she'll 'it that floating tower!'
'She'll do more than that, Mr Samson. She'll take Lord William Jervis, and the Prince of Wales, and several hundred brave men, to the bottom of the sea in less time than it takes me to say it!'
'Never!' said Samson half-heartedly. 'That tower won't sink 'er!'
'Mr Samson, 'ave the goodness to look at the buoy under that iron tower and see what you can read.'
‘I tried that,' said Samson, 'and all I can see looks like "Half something or other.'
'Not to me it don't, Mr Samson. There's other words that ends in an "1" and an "f'. We ain't just eighty miles from Plymouth, we're in a place what the villain Ransome has chosen very carefully indeed. Mr Samson, that tall thing out there is the warning buoy for the Wolf Rock!'
'Lord William ain't just going to run a brand-new warship on to a rock to please Ransome,' said Samson reasonably.
'So you been saying every minute for the last four hours, Mr Samson.'
Verity was alone at the porthole, watching intently. The long afternoon had passed and the sun was setting.
'All my childhood,' he remarked, 'all my childhood I 'eard men talk of the Wolf Rock, as though it was the devil himself. There ain't a more treacherous fang on any coast. When the tide's low, you see it just above water and the waves breaking on it, same as you did when you saw the foam about the buoy. But when the tide's high, it's just two feet under the water with long sharp ridges that might slice a ship in two. That's what they call the teeth of the Wolf. Any man that steams across it is going to find the bottom sheared off his hull easy as peeling the skin from an orange. It might be the flagship of the fleet, Mr Samson, but she wouldn't float twenty seconds hardly after that. It wouldn't matter whether or not she had lifeboats, a-cos there wouldn't be time even to order them lowered. Ransome ain't half got a mind for a caper like this! And, o' course, he must have been able to get every detail of the Hero's rendezvous in his conversation with Lord William!'
'Lord William ain't going to prance about the Wolf Rock.'
'Not too close,' Verity agreed, 'but half or even quarter of a mile is deep water and safe enough. The target buoys is easier to find if he can track 'em down by the light of the Wolf Rock buoy.’
There was a ripple of oars and the little gig passed across their field of vision, heading for the three buoys several hundred yards from them. It seemed to Verity that the Lady Flora had been allowed to drift further off during the course of the afternoon, though he had not heard the anchor weighed. In the gathering twilight it was now possible to see the first glimmer on the water from the green lights on the target buoys. The three red lights in a vertical row on the latticework of the Wolf Rock buoy glowed in the semi-darkness. The gig was lost to sight in the gloom. Then, across the surging water came a sharp crack, followed by another. The highest of the three red stars was suddenly extinguished.
'Shooting 'em out!' said Verity for Samson's benefit. The report came again, and the lower of the other two red lights was gone. Two more shots and the third light died. Above the teeth of the Wolf there was nothing now but the green lights of the marker buoys, even the iron latticework of the floating tower having merged into the darkness. Almost at once, a red trace shimmered across the water, as three red lamps shone out from the foremast of the Lady Flora at an identical height to those which had just been extinguished on the Wolf Rock buoy.
Verity snorted with derision.
'Very clever! The Hero takes our mast-lights for the Wolf Rock and the green lights as the place for Admiralty manoeuvres! They ain't to know, in the dark, that the whole set has been moved a few hundred yards to the left! She'll be doing full speed between them green markers, slice her clean as an apple! Honest Jack ain't missed a trick on this bloody caper!'
'There's always compasses,' said Samson hopefully. 'They'll check the course by 'em perhaps.'
'When they can see the lights, Mr Samson? A compass has to be set and it don't always stay true. After I heard of Mr Richard Jervis' adventure, I read the old report on the Birkenhead. It was compasses that did for her. Not being true, they drove her straight on to the reef. If her officers had used their eyes, they might all a-been safe. In a night like this, Mr Samson, a good sailor uses his eyes first and his compasses next.'
They lay on the coal, faces close to the porthole, watching the glimmer of red and green lights on the shifting waves.
'I keep thinking, Mr Samson. She'll be full ahead on both her engines. When they see that dark iron tower ahead of them, it'll be too late. And I keep thinking of the last minutes and the uproar, the brave men going down, sucked under by the ship sinking. And I keep thinking that one of them is otherwise to be King of England in his time.'
'Thinking might kill a cat, old son,' said Samson gloomily, 'but you ain't going to think your way out of here. They won't even open that door until it's all over and they come to blow us to Kingdom Come. You might let the boilers go out now, for all they care. When they've coopered us, their own men can stoke 'em up quick enough.'
Verity nodded, as though all this were entirely reasonable. He said,
'I ain't a man that enjoys thinking to no purpose, Mr Samson. P'raps I've thought my way out of here and p'raps I haven't. What I ain't going to do is sit here like the patience of Job and watch it all happen out there. There ain't nothing promised, but if you was to do as I say, we might have a fighting chance.'
'And what do you say?' Samson asked doubtfully.
Verity slithered down the heap of coal and picked himself up.
'They got coal enough to get 'em back to Plymouth, Mr Samson. So we may as well lend 'em a hand and start shovelling it in.'
'You ain't going to 'elp the bastards?'
'Do as I do, Mr Samson, and have the goodness not to argue.'
Verity paused a moment, shovel in hand. The two sergeants looked at one another. Across the surface of the darkened sea, as though from a great distance, came a strong insistent rhythm. Its dulled regularity sounded like the deep and powerful beat of a heart. They scrambled to the porthole once more and peered into the night. What they saw was so far away that it appeared to be almost beyond the First slight curvature of the horizon. But there was no mistaking the pattern of sound and the cluster of riding-lights as the great ship, with the Prince on board, chur
ned towards them in her remote thunder of engines.
15
Without another word, Verity took his shovel, reversed his grip and forced open the porthole with a single blow of the handle. In the starless night, the dark water rippled and ran along the hull less than twelve inches below the little opening. To Samson's bewilderment, he loaded the shovel with as much coal as he could balance on it and shot the contents through the porthole. The black nuggets, varying in size from a clenched fist to a full brick, fell into the sea with a scattered and prolonged splash. Working with a sudden desperation, he loaded the shovel and repeated the procedure.
'Buckle to, Mr Samson! If we want to get out of 'ere, we must make 'em open that door and come down to settle with us! There ain't no surer way than by letting them see their precious coal going to the bottom! If they wait till the 'ero's done for, there won't be a lump left! Fancy 'em stuck eighty miles out from Plymouth and being carried further and further to sea when the tide alters again!'
Samson said nothing, but the perfect simplicity of the idea was beyond question. Taking the second shovel, he opened the porthole of the other bunker and began shooting coal into the dark water in a long and vigorous slinging gesture.
'Kick up a row, Mr Samson! Let 'em see what we're doing.'
'Slap! Bang!' roared Samson, "ere we are again! 'ere we are again! 'ere we are again! Slap! Bang! 'ere we are again! What jolly dogs are we!'
'That's it, Mr Samson! Let 'em think we're half seas over! It'll help to take 'em off guard!'
The coal was now falling into the sea with a rythmic splashing, first on one side and then the other. As he worked, the perspiration on his body icy cold in the night breeze from the open porthole, Verity heard the first sounds from the deck. There were voices in puzzled exchange, then a shout, and footsteps as someone strode towards the companionway.
"alf a minute more, Mr Samson! Keep shovelling while I get ready for 'em! When you hear the bolts go back, come and stand between me and them!'
Samson had hardly time to sling two more loads of coal into the sea before there were voices at the stoke-hold door and the tiny metallic scratching of the bolts being furtively eased back. Verity was in the act of driving his shovel into the glowing coals of the furnace when the iron door of the little hold was wrenched back. In the shadowy glare of the fire he half saw and half guessed the fate which Ransome had prepared for them.
Sergeant Verity Presents His Compliments Page 23
