The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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are queer keepsakes,” she said in a half-whisper as the door of the captain’s cabin opened, “but they will tell us exactly when and where we parted. Who knows when and where we shall meet again—if we ever do?”
“If we ever do,” he repeated in the same tone; and then, as the captain came out and looked at them inquiringly, he reported the latitude that they had found, and followed him up the companion-steps.
When they arrived on deck they found the crew ranged along the bulwark watching the gun-boat, which was now fully in view, end-on to the brigantine, and approaching rapidly, her bare masts swinging like pendulums as she rolled along over the big swell.
“I suppose we shall make our number, sir,” said Osmond; and as the skipper vouchsafed no reply beyond an unintelligible grunt, he added: “The flag locker is in your cabin, isn’t it?
“Never you mind about the flag locker,” was the sour reply. “Our name is painted legibly on the bows and the counter, and I suppose they’ve got glasses if they want to know who we are.” He took the binocular from Osmond, and after a leisurely inspection of the gun-boat, continued: “Looks like the Widgeon. Coming to pick up a passenger, I reckon. About time, too. I suppose you are both going—if they’ll take you?”
“I am not,” said Osmond. “I am going to stay and see you into port.”
The skipper nodded and emitted an ambiguous grunt, which he amplified with the addition: “Well, you can please yourself,” and resumed his inspection of the approaching stranger.
His forecast turned out to be correct, for the gunboat made no signal, but, sweeping past the Speedwell’s stern at a distance of less than a quarter of a mile, slowed down and brought-to on the port side, when she proceeded to lower a boat; whereupon Captain Hartup ordered a rope ladder to be dropped over the port quarter. These preparations Miss Burleigh watched anxiously and with an assumption of cheerful interest, and when the boat ran alongside, she joined the skipper at the head of the ladder, while Osmond, lurking discreetly in the background, kept a watchful eye on the officer who sat in the stern-sheets until the lessening distance rendered him distinguishable as an undoubted stranger, when he also joined the skipper.
As the newcomer—a pleasant-faced, clean-shaved man in a lieutenant’s uniform—reached the top of the ladder, he exchanged salutes with the skipper and the lady, who advanced and held out her hand.
“Well, Miss Burleigh,” said the lieutenant as he shook her hand, heartily, “this is a relief to find you safe and sound and looking in the very pink of health. But you have given us all a rare fright. We were afraid the ship had been lost.”
“So she was,” replied Betty. “Lost and found. I think I have earned a fatted calf, don’t you, Captain Darley?”
“I don’t know,” rejoined the lieutenant (the honorary rank was in acknowledgment of his position as commander of the gun-boat); “we must leave that to His Excellency. But it doesn’t sound very complimentary to your shipmates or to your recent diet. I needn’t ask if you are coming back with us. My cabin has been made ready for you.”
“But how kind of you, Captain Darley. Yes, I suppose I must come with you, though I have been having quite a good time here; mutinies, fishing, and all sorts of entertainments.”
“Mutinies, hey!” exclaimed Darley, with a quick glance at the captain. “Well, I am sorry to tear you away from these entertainments, but orders are orders. Perhaps you will get your traps packed up while I have a few words with the captain. I shall have to make a report of what has happened.”
On this there was a general move towards the companion. Betty retired—somewhat precipitately—to her berth and the lieutenant followed Captain Hartup to his cabin.
Both parties were absent for some time. The first to reappear was Betty, slightly red about the eyes and carrying a small handbag. Having dispatched Sam Winter below to fetch up her portmanteau, she drew Osmond away to the starboard side.
“Jack,” she said, in a low, earnest tone—“I may call you by your own name just for once, mayn’t I?—you have made me a promise. You won’t go back on it, will you, Jack?”
“Of course I shan’t, Betty,” he replied.
“I want you to have my cabin when I’ve gone,” she continued. “It is a better one than yours and it has a tiny port-hole. And if you open the locker, you will find a little note for you. That is all. Here they come. Good-bye, Jack, darling!”
She turned away abruptly as he murmured a husky farewell, and having shaken hands with Captain Hartup and thanked him for his hospitality, was stepping on to the ladder when she paused suddenly and turned back.
“I had nearly forgotten,” said she. “I haven’t paid my passage.”
“There is no passage-money to pay,” the skipper said, gruffly. “My contract was to deliver you at Accra, and I haven’t done it. Besides,” he added, with a sour grin, “you’ve worked your passage.”
“Worked her passage!” exclaimed the lieutenant. What do you mean?”
“She has been taking the second mate’s duties,” the skipper explained.
Darley stared open-mouthed from the skipper to the lady. Then, with a fine, hearty British guffaw, he assisted the latter down to the boat.
CHAPTER VII
The Mate Takes His Discharge
As an instance of the malicious perversity which the forces of nature often appear to display, the calm which had for so many days cut off Miss Betty from any communication with the world at large seemed unable to survive her departure. Before the gun-boat was fairly hull down on the horizon, a dark line on the glassy sea announced the approach of a breeze, and a few minutes later the brigantine’s sails filled, her wallowings subsided, and a visible wake began to stream out astern.
The change in the vessel’s motion brought the captain promptly on deck, and Osmond listened somewhat anxiously for the orders as to the course which was to be set. But he knew his commander too well to make any suggestions.
“Breeze seems to be about sou’-sou’-west,” the skipper remarked with one eye on the compass-dial and the other on the upper sails. “Looks as if it was going to hold, too. Put her head west-nor’-west.”
“Did the lieutenant give you our position?” Osmond inquired.
“No, he didn’t,” the skipper snapped. “He wasn’t asked. I don’t want any of your brass-bound dandies teaching me my business. The continent of Africa is big enough for me to find without their help.”
Osmond smothered a grin as he thought of the chronometer, re-started and ticking away aimlessly in the captain’s cabin, its error and rate alike unknown. But again he made no comment, and presently the skipper resumed: “I suppose you will be wanting to get back to Adaffia?”
“I’m not going to leave you in the lurch.”
“Well, you can’t stay with me for good excepting as a seaman, as you haven’t got a ticket—at least, I suppose you haven’t.”
“No. I hold a master’s certificate entitling me to navigate my own yacht, but, of course, that is no use on a merchant vessel, excepting in an emergency. But I don’t quite see what you are going to do.”
“It is a bit of a problem,” the skipper admitted. “I shall take on one or two native hands to help while we are on the Coast, and appoint Winter and Simmons to act as mates. Then perhaps I shall he able to pick up an officer from one of the steamers for the homeward trip.”
“I will stay with you until you are fixed up, if you like,” said Osmond; but the captain shook his head.
“No,” he replied. “I shall put you ashore at Adaffia. I can manage all right on the Coast, and I must have a regular mate for the homeward voyage.”
Thus the programme was settled,