Part 5

He ought to have been a detective, ought Trevelyan, and was off in a "jiffy" to search for fresh traces. "Footmarks! bootmarks! plenty of them, sir," he shouted presently, and I saw him bending down and measuring them with his handkerchief. "Ours, I expect," I sang back; but he shook his head, and presently came up to me in a great pitch of excitement—he had taken his own boots off by this time to avoid making any more marks—"There are at least three different sizes down there, sir! European bootmarks too. One of them might belong to Travers, but there are some very much larger ones than his, and I don’t think that one man made them all. There must have been several Europeans down here early this morning. This must be where the pirates landed and shoved off again, sir—two of the boats more or less together, and the third half an hour or so later—but I’m bothered if I can make out those two corpses, and what they are doing here."

I dragged him away. He was very reluctant to go, and kept turning back and scanning the shore with his glasses. Suddenly he took me by the shoulder—I was so "jumpy" that his touch gave me quite a shock—"Look there, sir! What’s that?" and before I could say anything he darted back, began to undress, and then wading and swimming, and clinging to some fishing stakes which jutted out from the shore, he made his way to where something hung from the farthest fishing stake. I could see that it was something coloured, and as he came back with it I recognized it as a shawl belonging to Mrs. Macpherson, and remembered that she had told us that Sally Hobbs had borrowed one before going down to the fire.

I knew what it all meant now—her disappearance—the bootmarks on the shore—the furrows of those boat keels—and the shawl—and that the poor little girl had again fallen into the hands of those fiends of pirates. One cannot explain, or describe, how one feels on occasions like this, though I do know that when Trevelyan rejoined me presently, blue in the face with cold, and with his teeth chattering, but bringing the shawl, and intensely eager to solve the mystery, I felt as though I wanted to hit him, and hated to have to tell him all it meant.

"Give it to me," I said harshly.

"No, sir; I cannot. I found it, and if it turns out as you say, I’m going to give it back to her."

We said not a word as we trudged back to the Mission House, neither of us caring to speak of what we feared. Ten minutes ago I should have been inexpressibly pleased to have found Travers, but now I eagerly hoped that he had been kidnapped too, and that, in some way or other, he might be able to protect her—for her father I cared not two straws, nor did I place reliance on any effort of his to save either of them.

Fortunately Captain Lester was waiting for us near the ruins of the Mission House, and it was a relief to find him in a bad temper. He didn’t wait to hear what I had to tell him, but, shaking his fist at me, bellowed out, "This is the work of those villainous pirates"—he was hardly able to speak for rage. "Set fire to the town—right under my nose—made a fool of Old Lest, and cleared out again without a scratch. And that little lass too! What’s become of her and of that fool Travers? I can’t trust a single one of my officers. Umph! Here you go ashore to put out a fire, don’t save anyone, and shoot that chap Ching. Umph! I’d like to—— Umph!"

I rapidly told him all that had happened.

"Poor little lass! Poor little lass!" he groaned, and all the anger died out of his face. He came down with me to that bay, saw the bodies and the marks on the shore, sent people to scour all the neighbourhood; but nothing more could be discovered, and we went back again.

Presently the missionary came up—he’d been down to see those bodies too. He was shaking like a leaf, and his sunburnt face was quite ashen in colour. "Ah, mon!" and he wrung his hands, "but one o’ those puir dead things was my servant. I know him by his clothes—the one with his head fair smashed in."

I had had too many puzzling events suddenly sprung on me that morning, and, honestly, couldn’t try to explain this last, and could only say feebly, "Poor chap! Poor chap!"

"A vairy faithful mon, an’ vairy leetil expense," moaned the missionary. Trevelyan showed him the shawl, and he recognized it at once as the one Sally Hobbs had thrown over her head before leaving the Mission, so our last faint hope vanished.

Fortunately young Rawlings relieved the grimness of everything just then. He is a most pugnacious youngster, and though I had sent him on board with Whitmore, he had managed to come ashore again. He had got into trouble with two coolies—I suppose he had found them looting—and had gone for them with his fists, and was laying about him in fine style. One had taken to his heels, but the other stood his ground, and kept banging at him with a piece of wood. The Skipper caught sight of them too, and, for all the bad temper he was in, smiled grimly, and chuckled out, "Go it, youngster!" Rawlings had already received a nasty cut over the forehead, and would have been "knocked out" in another minute, if I hadn’t stepped forward and knocked the fellow down. I don’t mind telling you that I put more "beef" into that blow than was absolutely necessary. Somehow or other I felt I must hit somebody, and it was unlucky for that Chinaman.

"Go down to the boat, Mr. Rawlings. Umph! what d’you mean by brawling?" growled the Skipper, suddenly remembering himself.

The Skipper told me, as we walked back to the landing-place, that several Europeans had been seen during the night, and that they were evidently in command of parties of Chinamen, who had prevented the inhabitants extinguishing the flames when they first started. This made it positive that it had been the work of the pirates, and confirmed the rumours that Europeans had frequently been seen among them at different times, and when any outrage on a large scale had been carried out.

What made the Skipper so furious was that they had so completely outwitted him; and he became purple in the face with fury at their daring to swoop down on the town, under his eyes, as it were, burn half of it, kidnap Hobbs and his daughter, probably Travers too, and get away scot free.

He took it as a personal insult, and I can’t tell you all the mad things he suggested. He felt very much as I did—he wanted badly to batter somebody’s face, but he soon quieted down, and walked beside me with great strides, grunting and growling, and screwing up his face, and I knew that he was trying to work out some plan in his bull-dog brain.

But you can’t hit a man till you’ve caught him, that was the difficulty, and we had to catch him first, and knew well enough that among these islands were a thousand places where those two steamers—the tramp and the yacht—could lie concealed for years.

"Unless they want to make money over ’em, they’re as good as done for," the Skipper said, as we went on board. "Poor little lass, not more’n a couple of years older than my lass Nan!"

I had served with "Old Lest" seven years, and I would do any mortal thing for him. He pretended he was a thundering bully, and was really as gentle as a child; and the men worshipped him, his gruff voice and great red face—even his bad temper. I was extremely sorry for him too, because the responsibilities resting on him were so great, prompt action so necessary, and the difficulties so enormous.

He did what I suppose was the best, and sent the gunboats and the _Huan Min_ cruising, whilst we remained at Tinghai, with fires "banked". Leave to officers and men was forbidden, and that meant, of course, that the Skipper himself did not go ashore, and had to give up his shooting, which was the one thing for which he lived. The _Vigilant_ was, in fact, kept ready to start within an hour of receiving any news.

Meanwhile natives—as trustworthy as Ching and the Taotai could procure—had been scattered through the archipelago, and the war junks also had been induced to leave Tinghai and endeavour to procure information. The Skipper seemed to depend upon these particularly, because they had naturally more intimate knowledge of the islands and the character of the people. They could cruise, too, without attracting so much attention as our gunboats. They generally cruised for a week, and at the end of that time came sailing back to Joss House anchorage, covered with flags and firing off guns, but with never a particle of news.

Week after week went by, and not a trace of the pirates could be found. Indeed, they seemed to have disappeared off the face of the seas, and not a single outrage had been reported since they had burnt Tinghai. Rashleigh, coming back in the _Ringdove_, did certainly report that he had one night heard what he thought was the sound of guns somewhere off the Chung-li Tao group, but had discovered nothing when he steamed in the direction of the noise. "Silly fool!" roared the Skipper to me, "he don’t know the difference between thunder and guns."

These weeks of weary waiting were most depressing, and the constant confinement on board, without any exercise, most bad for our health—and tempers.

We now felt sure that someone, probably the dead Mission servant, had guided Travers down to the shore that night; that he, like the mad fellow that he was, had rushed off alone, hoping to rescue Sally and her father single-handed, and that he had been kidnapped with them. I forgot to tell you that Barclay, our Surgeon, had found the bullet in the body of the mutilated Chinaman, and that it was a service Webley revolver bullet, so it was quite possible that Travers had shot him. There probably had been a scuffle, and the Mission servant, not being worth capturing, had been killed and mutilated to prevent recognition.

We all were so worried and depressed, that two days of strenuous work, coaling ship from a collier, and another day of cleaning ship afterwards, came as a welcome relief. It’s precious seldom that one does welcome that job, but we did then.

For some long time I had not heard the noise of the gunroom piano. Someone or other would be banging it at all hours of the day, and as the gunroom was immediately beneath my cabin, the noise was a continual source of annoyance to me. My messenger used to be always taking down fiery messages to the Sub, Langham. The absence of this noise was now a blessed relief, and when I mentioned it to Langham, he asked me to go down and see for myself the reason of it. I went down, and found that the piano was shut, and that _Vigilant_ cap-ribbons had been glued across, to prevent it being opened. "Miss Hobbs was the last to play it, sir, and the Mids and all of us have sworn that no one shall play it again till she does, and till she cuts those ribbons with the senior mid’s dirk."

"Who suggested that?" I asked, smiling.

"Mr. Langham, sir," several of the mids cried; but he, getting red in the face, said it was Hamilton, the Engineer, and he put it on to Moore, the A.P., so I left them settling the subject, and only too glad that the piano was so effectually sealed.

I think that everyone did feel, as the gunroom did, that some day we should see them all aboard again—Travers, with his mad, chivalrous notions and "tired" manner, and the pretty little girl, with her winsome face and funny twang.

At the end of the third week after the fire at Tinghai, the United States gun-vessel, the _Omaha_, came down to place herself under the Skipper’s orders and assist us in our search. She was larger than our gunboats, very much more modern, and was rather quaint looking, with one mast and an enormously long, thin smoke-stack.

"If that chap comes along here giving Old Lest advice, Old Lest will—— Umph!" the Skipper growled when she was sighted.

Her captain, a man named Parkinson, was a tall, gaunt, disappointed man, with grey hair, and as old as Captain Lester himself, though actually junior in rank to me. He came across to report himself, and I heard him say, "Guess my boys thought the old _Omaha_ was a fixture in the ’chow-chow’ water at Shanghai, and our mud-hook could never be hauled out again. Say, Captain, we are right pleased to come and assist you."

He was sent away cruising.

Another weary week went by, and still no news came.

Then it turned out—one of the gunboats actually caught them at it—that those war junks, on which the Skipper relied so greatly for information, simply went out of harbour, round the corner, and hid in a neighbouring creek till their provisions ran out, and they had to come back again for more.

This news put the finishing touches to the Skipper’s bad temper, and he was mad with rage, and sent for the Taotai at once.

"Umph! A pretty how d’ye do! Those lumbering junks of yours simply skulk out of sight round a corner," he roared; and when this had been interpreted to the Taotai—I wondered how much the interpreter understood and passed on correctly—the frightened old man gesticulated feebly, and then out it came: "Taotai speaks, sir! If junks caught by Pilons, he makee buy new ones—he no caree."

So that was it, was it—the old chap didn’t intend to risk losing them? He was given so much a year to keep so many in good order, and if one was lost he would have to replace it. No wonder that we could gain no information from them.

You should have seen—and heard—the Skipper when he understood this, and you should have seen the old Taotai hurry down to his state barge, hide under his red umbrella, and shove off for the shore—glad enough he was to get away, too.

Late that evening the Skipper sent for me. He was beaming all over his face, puffing out his cheeks and working his shoulders, as I hadn’t seen him do for a fortnight. He banged me on the chest and nearly knocked me over. "Willum, where the dickens is Willum? Willum, you scoundrel! bring the Commander one of my eighteen-penny Havanas," he roared.

It was half past eleven; I wanted to turn in, and didn’t care to smoke, but it had to be done.

"Hit on a scheme, Truscott; I’ll wipe the old Taotai’s eye; I’m going to put our own people aboard those junks, and see if we can’t make them useful like that. Umph! What d’you say to that?" and he thumped the table with his huge fist, and glared at me.

"Six of ’em I’m going to take."

"Won’t the old chap object, sir?" I asked.

"Object! I’ll teach him to object! He’s got it down in black and white from his boss at Ningpo to put all his forces at our disposal," and the Skipper winked at me from behind a cloud of blue cigar smoke. "He’ll be pretty sorry he tried to pull Old Lest’s leg before he’s done with me. Umph! Our only sporting chance is to catch some of these rascals, and I’m not going to be too particular how I get information from ’em when I do catch ’em."

Fortunately the _Huan Min_ came in that night, and Ching helped us negotiate with the old gentleman in the walled city. He, I am certain, did his best; but he told me, very candidly, that if we persisted in our demands, we should touch their pride very greatly, and that it would increase the already hostile feeling of the Chinese towards us, and would very possibly prevent any information coming in from private sources.

Captain Lester was much annoyed at the attitude he took up, and always thought that he was the cause of what happened, though, personally, I am sure that he had acted honestly by us. At any rate, the Skipper had blurted out, "If he won’t lend ’em to Old Lest, Old Lest’ll borrow ’em;" and somehow or other this threat got to the Taotai’s ears, and so scared the old gentleman, that next morning not a war junk remained in harbour.

Ching came across directly, and protested that neither he nor his Captain had any knowledge of their going to sea. I believed him, and so did everyone, except the Skipper, who flew into a terrible rage, and I was very glad to get Ching away and soothe his ruffled feelings, but could not induce him to stay to breakfast.

"Made a fool of Old Lest again, have they? Umph! I’ll—I’ll—" he stuttered and bellowed when I reported "divisions" to him, "I’ll do ’em yet. I’ll buy half a dozen of their big merchant junks and man ’em myself! Old Lest’ll sell a farm or two, if the Admiralty don’t pay for ’em."

"D’you mean that, sir?" I asked.

"D’you ever hear me say anything I didn’t mean?" he roared; and though I must confess I had done so, I dare not say so.

I slipped away directly in my gig, and went across to the old _Huan Min_. I saw her Captain and Ching pacing gloomily up and down the poop, and it was very pleasant to see their faces open out again when they heard the news, and that their country’s honour was not to be disturbed.

Ching gripped me by the hand—"You English, sir,"—and the muscles of his face were working strangely—"do not understand how these things, these slights, and—these little insults to our country hurt us. All you Western nations think we have no such love and pride of country as you have, and do not feel it. We do, sir! We do!"

I have always been glad that I did go aboard that morning, for my ideas of the Chinese were very much changed.

Ching himself came of a very old fighting stock—his people had always belonged to a high military caste, and his father had fought against the French well and nobly. He himself—Lawrence had told me this—had fought against the Japanese in the Yalu battle, and when all his senior officers had been killed, and his ship almost a wreck, had taken her out of action and staggered across to Wei-hai-wei, keeping the light cruisers, which hung round him, at a respectful distance with the one gun that was able to fire.

Japanese naval men had told me the story, in admiration of his plucky ship, but it was not till Lawrence told me that I knew who had commanded her.

I knew Ching a good deal better after that. He had done more fighting than I ever hoped to have the luck to do, and when one’s job is to fight, and one gets paid to keep oneself ready for it, one always admires a man who has earned his pay.

Ching took me into his cabin once, a strange kind of barn, half Chinese and half English, with two old faded photographs hanging on the bulkheads, one of the _Inflexible_ and the other of her Mids, Ching in the middle, and Lawrence, a fat little chubby-faced youth, by his side.

I often chaffed Lawrence about that photo—he looked so angelic.

*CHAPTER V*

*Midshipman Ford’s First Command*

The Junk—H.M.S. "Sally"—"Here’s Luck to the ’Sally’"—Ready to Start—Under Way—In Command—Night at Sea—The Strange Junk

_Written by Midshipman Ford_

If anybody had told me a week ago that by this time I should be captain of my own ship, I should have called him a blithering Ananias, and probably punched his head if he was anything like my size, and made him jolly sorry for trying to pull my leg.

But there it is. I am the captain of the _Sally_, converted junk, two guns, tender to H.M.S. _Ringdove_, and who, do you think, is my first lieutenant? Why, Dicky Morton, "Dear Little Dicky" of all chaps in the world, and he’s turning out not to be half such a silly fool as he looks—I often tell him so, just to buck him up.

I must tell you how it all happened.

The Captain had found out that those war junks never cruised at all, simply hid round a corner out of sight, and as he depended a great deal on them for news of the pirates, he was simply furious when he heard of it, and sent ashore and bought six of the biggest merchant junks.

I was with the party of men under Mr. Whitmore sent to bring them off. The steam pinnace was to tow them, one by one, but got a rope round her screw, and delayed everything whilst it was being cleared. I happened to be on board one of them with six men, preparing to be taken in tow, and it struck me that it would be a jolly good "wheeze" to sail off. Mr. Whitmore sung out that I might try, and I did, and got her off quite comfortably, without breaking anything when I came alongside.

I had had a jolly lot of experience in sailing at Upton Overy, both before and after going to the _Britannia_, and I don’t want to be cheeky or anything like that, but it seemed to come quite naturally to me to sail any boat, and I always seemed to be able to feel exactly what was wanted to make it sail its best.

The Captain was very pleased with me for doing this, and that is how I got the command of my junk.

He had all of us Midshipmen and Cadets fallen in on the quarterdeck, glared at us and growled, "Now, you young gentlemen, you’ve got a job to do at last—no skrim-shanking about it either—jolly hard job—and I want those of you who can sail ’em best to take charge of ’em. You’ve got to get hold of some of those pirate fellows for me—don’t care how you get ’em, but get some of ’em alive. Can’t get anything out of the dead ’uns, umph!"

You can’t imagine how excited that made all of us, and when the six junks had all been lashed alongside, we had to clean them first and fit them out afterwards.

The Commander told me that I could have the one which I had sailed off, and told me that I could choose one of the cadets to go with me. Dicky came and offered to do any mortal thing for me if I would take him—he was nearly blubbing with keenness—so I said I would, and we both had to start the job of cleaning her out. The Commander gave me twelve hands, and it was a jolly beastly job. She was perfectly filthy, and we had to scrape away half an inch of stuff from her inside with shovels before we could even commence scrubbing. The smell in the holds was almost enough to knock anyone down, and we worked till long after it was dark, and they had hoisted big yardarm group lights to make it easier for us.

It rained too, but we didn’t worry about that in the least, because we were so jolly happy. I’d never seen Dicky like it before. He was chirping about like a bloated sparrow, and was much too happy even to speak.

You can see what the junk was like by the picture. The great stern place was where we all had to live, and it was something like a huge pigeon loft with three sliding-door places in it. One opened from the deck into a fairly big place, where the rudder head came up through the stern and the long tiller worked. The ten bluejackets were to live there. Above it and under the poop deck were two little places about eight feet square, and only just a little more than four feet high. In one of them Dicky and I were going to live, and the two petty officers who were coming had the other.

A narrow platform was below the two upper doors, with a ladder running down on deck at one end, and one running up to the poop at the other. It looked exactly like a pigeon loft.

All the time we were busy scraping and shovelling and scrubbing, the carpenters and blacksmiths were busy fitting two great balks of timber with some cross-pieces to take a six-pounder Hotchkiss quick-firer and its mounting. They were bolting them down to the deck and the sides of the junk, just in front of the mainmast, and on the top of the poop they mounted a Maxim gun. The _Vigilant_ hadn’t enough Maxim guns for all six of the junks, so three had had Nordenfelt machine guns from the gunboats. I had never seen the ship so busy; she was humming from morning to night, and for most of the night too, for four whole days. Besides the carpenters’ and blacksmiths’ work, the anchor gear and all the standing and running rigging had to be refitted or overhauled. I only wish, as you will know by and by, that more of it had been refitted, because it really was not strong enough.

You can just imagine how excited Dicky and I were when they did at last lower a six-pounder down into our junk, and we saw it sitting in its mounting, and knew we might soon have to use it.