Part 2

"Anything about the telegram or the jam?" he asked anxiously.

"Not yet; things are going all right so far;" and I raced back and began reading the messages, till I came to the station master’s, and then I got red and spluttered a bit and didn’t read it, but went on to Ned the Poacher’s about the pheasants.

"Like his darned cheek!" the Captain roared, purple in the face. "I’ll shoot him the first time I catch him! He knows that, and keeps clear when I’m about. What’s become of his wife and kids?"

I told him, and then—I knew it must come out sooner or later—blurted out, "and Puddock, the station master, asked me, sir, to tell you that they were both ’fair to middling’, and ’his pigs have won first prize this year at Barnton’. Mrs. Puddock, sir, sent you a pot of cranberry jam, but—but——"

"Where is it, Dick? She’s made me a pot every year since I went to the _Britannia_. Bring it out."

Well, there was nothing else to be done. I simply quaked with fear and stuttered out: "Jim ate it, sir—I mean we both ate it," and then, before he could say anything, I explained that Jim Rawlings had thought it was mine, and that it would be a good joke to eat it without my knowing.

I suppose I looked so terrified that he hadn’t the heart to be angry. He gurgled and growled and got red in the face, and I waited to see whether it was going to be with amusement or anger, and oh! I was so thankful, it was only amusement.

He sent me away then. "You’ll shake down all right; glad to have you in my ship;" and though I longed to ask him whether there was any chance of going for those pirates, I hadn’t the pluck to do so, and bolted like a rabbit.

*CHAPTER II*

*Introduces Sally Hobbs*

News of the Pirates—Mr. Hobbs Tells his Story—The Chinese Captain—The Pirates—Three Cheers for Miss Hobbs!—The Skipper gets the Telegram

_Written by Commander Truscott, H.M.S. Vigilant_.

As I have been asked to assist in writing an account of the events which happened during the last few months of the commission of our dear old tub the _Vigilant_, I had better explain to you how they first arose.

We had been up to Shanghai, to be handy in case a serious effervescence of native feeling against Europeans should bubble over, and get out of the control of the local authorities. As it happened, the agitation fizzled out without our being required, and I think I can honestly say, to our great disappointment.

From there we steamed down to Tinghai Harbour in Chusan, the largest of the islands of the Chusan Archipelago, and anchored close to Joss House Hill and the tumble-down ramparts of the new town of Tinghai. All the islands of the archipelago simply abound with game. There are pheasants in every valley, and millions of duck, geese, curlew, snipe, and even wild swan are to be found on the marshes, paddy fields, and vast stretches of mud. It was for this reason that Captain Lester had obtained permission to come here, and he had chosen Tinghai because its harbour is the safest in the archipelago, as well as the most important, being the centre for a vast trade carried on with Ningpo and Shanghai on the mainland. Close inshore are always clustered a great number of fine merchant junks, loading and unloading, and anchored off the town is generally a small fleet of war junks. These are supposed to cruise round the islands and keep down piracy—as a matter of fact they don’t. As an additional protection to the town and shipping, two little open batteries are built at each end of the harbour, mounting fairly modern breech-loading guns.

Half a mile inland, and only connected to the modern town by a rough causeway through the paddy fields, is the ancient town of Tinghai. It is surrounded by a deep moat and lofty mud walls, which are pierced by four gloomy archways. These are flanked by towers, closed in by heavy, iron-bound gates, and only approached over drawbridges whose rusty chains are probably not equal to the task of hauling them up.

It looks gloomy enough from the outside, but it is still more so inside, and the sullen, scarcely concealed hostility of the inhabitants of its dark, horrid-smelling streets makes one exceedingly glad to get out again into the daylight, with no more indignity than being spat at or hustled.

The natives of the seaport town have grown accustomed to white men, and if they do not exactly welcome them, they tolerate them amiably enough. Indeed, a missionary and his wife—Macpherson by name—have lived here for years, and are always dinning into our ears the number of converts they have made.

You can imagine that everyone who could get away shooting did so, and one evening I came back to the ship after a long day’s tramping through paddy fields after snipe. I had been using my new hammerless gun for the first time, I remember, and hadn’t quite got into the "hang" of it, and kept on forgetting to push up the "safety" catch. Snipe don’t give you much time for fooleries of that sort, so I hadn’t been very successful.

I noticed that a Chinese cruiser was anchored close to the _Vigilant_, but paid no special attention to her, because she often came in. It was getting dark, and I was in a hurry to get aboard, have a hot bath, and change for dinner. The skipper of the _Ringdove_, one of our gunboats, had been shooting with me; I put him aboard his own packet, and then pulled alongside the _Vigilant_, where Lawrence, our navigator, met me at the gangway very excited, and I saw at once that there was something the matter. He followed me into my cabin, and whilst I changed into uniform, told me what had happened.

The Chinese cruiser—the _Huan Min_ she was—an old wooden corvette belonging to the Peiyang squadron, had been making one of her regular cruises among the islands, and yesterday morning she had picked up two Americans—an old man named Hobbs and his daughter—adrift in a boat. They had reported that they and their steam yacht, the _Sally Hobbs_, had been captured by pirates, and that somehow they themselves had managed to escape. Turning out of her course to search for the yacht, the _Huan Min_ had run into a fog, and presently found herself "right on top" of a tramp steamer and the yacht herself. Both had made off inshore as quickly as possible, and the Chinese Captain, following them, had rammed the poor old _Huan Min’s_ nose firmly into the mud. He had scarcely commenced to go full speed astern, when she came under a heavy fire, either from the tramp steamer or the shore, a fire to which she was unable to reply with effect. She was hulled several times, and had had some men killed and wounded before the rising tide enabled her to back off into deep water and get out of range. She had come along to Tinghai as fast as she could, and Lawrence told me that the two Americans were already aboard the _Vigilant_, and that Captain Lester was furious at having to look after them.

"He’s had rather a bad day’s shooting, sir, and is in a bad temper."

This was Lawrence’s story, and excited enough he was about it and the chances of our having a "show". "Strangely enough too, sir," he said, "the First Lieutenant of that ship is an old chum of mine—a man named Ching. He was doing a year’s training in the old _Inflexible_ when I was a Mid in her. A jolly chap he was—we all liked him—and he’s coming over after dinner to have a yarn, if he can get away."

I had to dine with the Captain that night—he positively refused to entertain the two Americans by himself—and I learnt from the old father, Mr. Martin P. Hobbs—I had seen his name in the papers—he was a wealthy railway magnate—the details of their extraordinary escape. This is what he told me, and you can take it for what it’s worth; but he was such a weird, cunning little object, that I, somehow or other, found myself doubting his story. He and his daughter Sally, who was as pretty as paint, although her hair had been clumsily cut off, and who was now trying to twist the dear old bully of a Captain round her little finger, had been wandering about the Northern Treaty Ports, and at Shanghai had met some Boston people who were, what he called, doing a "splash". They’d been somewhere up country with a caravan of their own—somewhere where no one else had ever been—and in order to go one better, nothing would content Miss Hobbs but that her father should buy a small steam yacht, which happened to be for sale, and start away for a thousand-mile trip up the Yangtse. The skipper of the yacht—they’d named it the _Sally Hobbs_—seems to have been a dare-devil sort of scoundrel, according to Hobbs, and instead of taking them up to Hankow, got them to alter their plans, and brought them down among the islands.

One night they had anchored close to an island, and woke up to find the yacht in possession of a crowd of Chinamen, simply swarming all over the decks. They were forced down below and locked in their cabins, and there they stayed for a whole day, while the yacht steamed away. Some time during the next night Hobbs was roughly gagged and bound, a long, blue, Chinese coat pulled over him, and he was made to get into a boat alongside. He found his daughter lying in the sternsheets, gagged and covered with another blue native coat. He heard a scuffle on deck, but it was too dark to see anything distinctly. He thought he heard the voice of the old Scotch engineer of the yacht, and then someone cast off the boat and they drifted quickly away in the darkness.

In the morning they had been seen by the _Huan Min_, taken on board, were in great danger whilst she was trying to fight the pirates, and were afterwards brought along here.

That was his story, and as I said before, it did not convince me. If the whole scheme had been arranged, and he implied that the skipper of the yacht was the arch villain, how on earth had he allowed Hobbs to escape so easily? He must have known of his enormous wealth, and would surely have kept close guard on him to extort a ransom later on.

However, there was his daughter, and no doubt her hair had been roughly cropped off, and from what I know about women, especially pretty ones, they wouldn’t lose their hair if they could possibly help it, and when I looked across at her, the very picture of innocence, and heard her tell the Skipper how they’d shorn it off, putting her hands through the irregular bits left, her lips quivering, and her eyes filling with tears, I was bound to believe that there was some truth in it.

It was amusing to watch the change in the Skipper’s manner. He had sat down to dinner with a scowl on his face that would have melted the paint off the bulkhead, and snarled whenever he spoke; but now he was telling her all about his wife and daughters, and she was holding up her wrists to show him where they had been bound and bruised, and had completely mollified him.

Presently Hobbs ventured to ask him if he would try and recapture the yacht, and then the Skipper flared up again and roared at him, "that American citizens should get their own ships to do their own dirty work". The Skipper’s language was never too refined, but the little man wasn’t to be browbeaten. "Guess the _Sally Hobbs_ was flying your own red ensign, Captain," he answered defiantly.

"Darn my rags! Why didn’t you say so before?" shouted the Skipper, and got purple in the face. "Those pirates dare touch anything under our flag? I’ll go after ’em to-morrow."

"I rather fancy she was," put in Miss Hobbs. "Poppa and I were in such a hurry, we’d only time to paint _Sally Hobbs_ on the stern and the lifebuoys, and didn’t reckon it counted, altering the registration."

Well, that put matters in a new light, and I felt pleased at the prospect of our taking a hand in the game.

I happened to think of Lawrence finding his chum on board the _Huan Min_, and told the Captain about the strange coincidence. "He’s probably on board now, sir; he was coming over after dinner, if he possibly could."

"Umph! I’d like to see him. He would probably be useful," growled the Skipper, and sent "Willum" for him.

He came in presently, a fine-looking fellow in his black silk tunic with gold dragons round the sleeves, tall and upright, with a determined, prize-fighting jaw, which took the Skipper’s fancy directly.

He sat down, couldn’t keep his eyes off Miss Hobbs, and told us the story which you know already. He was very bitter about everything: his guns were worn out, his ammunition rotten, and his shells wouldn’t burst, and, he added, wincing, that they had not had sufficient medical stores for their wounded.

The Skipper, who, I could see, was much attracted by him—it was his square jaw that did it—offered to send carpenters over to help repair damages next morning (our doctors had already taken charge of the wounded), and promised that he would take the _Vigilant_ down to investigate the island.

I waited only long enough for the Skipper to make out his orders for raising steam in the morning, and slipped away to bed.

Next day we sent Hobbs and his daughter ashore—they were to stay with the Macphersons at the Mission House—and steamed down to the island, off which the _Huan Min_ had received such a hammering.

Though we spent the whole day examining not only the coast line, but the interior itself, not a trace could be found of the existence of any pirates or any battery. In fact, the island appeared to be uninhabited, and we steamed back somewhat out of patience with ourselves.

The next day the Taotai from the old town of Tinghai came on board in great state, amidst the firing of three gun salutes from the war junks and the _Huan Min_. The Captain of that ship came with him, and Ching also, to act as interpreter. I don’t quite know what their idea was, but they imagined that the Skipper could do anything, and they implored him to do something. The poor, feeble old Taotai seemed to be at his wits’ end, and must have stayed a couple of hours on board, pouring his woes into the Skipper’s extremely unsympathetic ears. It appeared that he was responsible for the maintenance of order throughout the archipelago, and that piracy had lately been increasing to an alarming extent. From island after island memorials and petitions had been pouring in for the last six months, and the old man quite broke down when he told us how impossible it was to do anything, and how he dare not report the whole state of affairs to his Viceroy on the mainland.

"Why not?" growled the Skipper, glaring at him.

"He’d probably be dismissed, sir, or lose his head," Ching answered.

"And a good thing too. Umph!" the Captain muttered. "Tell the old chap that I’m sending a gunboat up to Shanghai to-morrow or the next day, and will report everything to the Admiral, and must wait his orders. It’s no use me looking for that yacht by myself—might as well look for a needle in a haystack. Umph!"

What annoyed him was that the Taotai wouldn’t send out his war junks. We didn’t know the real reason for some weeks, but the old Taotai almost cried when he said that if the _Huan Min_ could be beaten off by them, the feeble junks wouldn’t stand a chance. There was a good deal of sense in that.

Of course, instances of piracy are always cropping up among these islands—we had been long enough in Chinese waters to know that—and we knew, too, that unless they became very numerous in the same locality, the authorities did not take much notice of them. You see it was only in times of bad trade, when perhaps the fishing had been a failure, or when the crops had been destroyed by one of the typhoons which used to devastate the islands lying in its track, that the inhabitants, practically threatened with starvation, would take to piracy as a means of tiding over the bad time.

Just imagine the temptation of seeing some lumbering great junk becalmed off your village, or stuck fast in the mud, if everyone was hungry and desperate, and imagine what an easy thing it was to man all your boats, surround her, and capture her. The chances were that she was full up with foodstuffs, beans, or rice or fish, and there was little to fear from the authorities, far away in Tinghai. They would never hear of it either, if you knocked the crew on the head. That is practically what would happen, and one lucky capture would set a village "up", till next harvest enabled them to carry on their peaceable pursuits.

Sometimes, of course, it happened that their appetites would be so whetted with their success, that they would lay in wait for every favourable opportunity, and every crawling junk which passed. Sooner or later it would be known that it was dangerous to take that channel, and sooner or later, if the trouble continued, a war junk or two, or perhaps one of the Peiyang corvettes, would be sent there to burn the village and hang a few of the inhabitants.

That is what you may call the ordinary course of events, and so long as someone did get hanged and some village was burnt, all went smoothly, and very little notice was taken of it.

But now, according to the old Taotai and Ching, it was a very different pair of shoes. There was organized piracy now; pirate junks cruised in twos and threes, cutting out junks anchored in front of their own villages, appearing from where no one knew, disappearing as mysteriously, but scattering death and ruin wherever they did appear.

A whole fleet of merchant junks, crowded together for safety, had recently been attacked by half a dozen pirate junks, and but one had escaped, throwing her cargo overboard, and flying before the wind to bear the news.

Not only were they evidently organized, but they also must have had spies in the principal centres, because, not two months ago, a war junk carrying the monthly salt tax to the mainland had been surrounded by pirates and forced to surrender, in sight of land. She had put up a good fight, and was well armed—for a war junk—and not the least notice had been taken of several merchantmen sailing with her for protection. This outrage was the real reason why the _Huan Min_ had been sent down.

Merchant junks always do carry four or five small muzzle-loading carronades, and these pop-guns had, up to now, been generally sufficient to scare away any sea robbers. Now, however, these gentry had got possession of such powerful weapons, that antiquated smooth bores were out-ranged entirely.

For months junks hardly dare quit an anchorage, unless they sailed in company with others, and if a strange lateen mat sail was sighted, would huddle together, and be only too glad to escape by disabling one of their own number, and leaving her a prey to their pursuer. You can understand the fright of these poor wretches, as they beat or drifted through the narrow channels, burning joss-sticks on their high poops, to implore the protection of one of their sea gods, and scuttling down below in abject fear when a pirate junk swooped down on them like a hawk, showing no mercy and giving no quarter, if any resistance was offered.

It was then, in this plight, that the Taotai had implored Captain Lester to give him assistance, and you can imagine that he was only too eager to take the matter up, especially as the capture of the _Sally Hobbs_ under our flag gave him the excuse and opportunity he needed.

But he could do nothing till he had communicated with the Admiral and asked for more gunboats. This is what he did immediately, sending despatches up to Shanghai by the _Ringdove_.

After that we had to be content to await events, and we had to wait for nearly three weeks, as something went wrong with the mails.

During this time the _Tyne_ storeship arrived with a lot of gear for us, as well as three youngsters. Only one of them—Ford—had originally been appointed to this ship, and I was much annoyed at two more being sent, because our gunroom was already overcrowded, and I’m always having trouble there, Langham, the Sub, having peculiar ideas of running the "show" with which I don’t always agree. Hobbs and his daughter seemed to have taken up their quarters permanently at the Mission House, and one day, before we eventually sailed, came off to tea with me—they’d asked themselves, and I could not well refuse—and brought with them a German named Hoffman, one of the finest specimens of a man I have ever seen. He caught the Skipper’s eye immediately, and the two were soon engaged in trying various feats of strength, at which, as far as I can remember, the German generally won, very much to the Captain’s annoyance. Little Miss Hobbs bothered me till I let her go down into the gunroom to have all the "dear little midshipmen", as she called them, introduced to her. She made herself so popular there, that they sang "For she’s a jolly good fellow", which made her fly back, in double-quick time, with tears in her eyes, to my cabin, where her father was smoking my cigars, and spitting, most accurately (and frequently), into my fireplace.

Hobbs told me that Hoffman was the original owner of the _Sally Hobbs_, had heard of her capture from some of the _Ringdove_ fellows at the Shanghai Club, and had come across country to Ningpo, and from there to Tinghai in a junk. Mighty keen, too, he was to get hold of her, because her rascally skipper, who had pretended to be his agent, had naturally never paid over the purchase money.

He rather foolishly asked Captain Lester whether he could be of any assistance to him in his search for her; but this made the Skipper flare up and say that he hadn’t orders to do anything, and "if he did get them", he growled, "it was time enough when ’Old Lest’", as he always called himself, "had proved himself a blooming fool". I softened the Skipper’s fierceness as much as I could, for Hoffman was evidently hard "hit" by his money loss, and, as he had lived all his life in China, I thought that he very possibly would be of some assistance when we really did come to business.

Well, at last, after we’d almost thought the Admiral had forgotten us, the _Ringdove_ did arrive, and little Rashleigh, her Lieutenant Commander, came on board, purple in the face because he would wear his sword belt too tight, waved some official letters at me, and went down aft.

It was not many minutes before I was sent for, heard the Skipper roaring to Rashleigh to "throw away that cabbage stalk he was smoking", and to Willum, "bring those eighteen-penny Havanas of mine", so knew, before I saw him, that the news was good, and found him rubbing his hands together and grunting with pleasure. "We’ve got to go for ’em, Truscott, got to go for ’em. The Admiral’s sending me a couple more gunboats, as well as the _Ringdove_, and I’m to have a free hand. We’ve got to get back that yacht, and Old Lest will give ’em a lesson not to meddle with the British flag. Umph!"

As he went over his correspondence I saw him read a telegram and turn round furiously. "Dash my wig, Truscott, look here, here’s impertinence! What the dickens is the Service coming to?" and he handed it to me.

I couldn’t help laughing. It read, "Midshipman Rawlings chum mine wants come _Vigilant_—Ford Midshipman," and was sent from Singapore.

"Well, he’s managed to get here somehow or other, sir."

"Both of ’em, drat ’em! and brought that useless rubbish Morton with ’em too! Umph!"

The Skipper was really angry, but I managed to smooth things down.

"Pretty plucky thing to do, sir, and both Ford and Rawlings are not half-bad boys. They don’t know much, of course, but will do well."

"Umph!" he grunted. "Plucky, do you call it? I don’t. I’ll see them both presently."

It was lucky for them that the Admiral’s letters had brought such good news. As a matter of fact, we fully expected that they would, and in the meantime the Skipper had obtained a vast amount of information from the Taotai ashore, and had already roughly drawn out his scheme for dealing with the pirates.