CHAPTER XX

THE AIRMAN

JUST before dawn the _Olive Branch_ gained the northern approach of the Straits of Messina. Away on the starboard quarter glimmered the lights of the Sicilian town of Milazzo, while well down in the northern sky a faint ruddy glare betokened the position of the smouldering fires of Stromboli.

"There's Cape Faro," observed Sinclair, pointing to a headland that loomed against the pale diffusing light. "We'll soon be in the thick of the shipping."

"The sooner the better," rejoined Lieutenant Palmer. "The chief has just been informed that we can only keep going another two hours."

"Port light showing, sir," shouted the look-out, as a faint red star moved slowly from behind the intervening headland.

"Be careful not to excite suspicion," cautioned Captain Brookes, as she gave a warning blast on her syren. "Ask her to make her number."

A reference to the code-book showed that the stranger was the British steamer _Bletchley Hall_.

"Done this time!" grunted Sinclair, as the _Olive Branch's_ helm was altered to show her red. Nor was the second venture more successful, the vessel in this case being the _Pluton_, from Zante to Castellamare.

Then, in order to economise their precious fuel, the _Olive Branch's_ engines were stopped. As the sun rose, however, a tramp, emitting dense volumes of oil-fed smoke, laboured slowly through the Straits. The practised eye of Captain Brookes regarded her with satisfaction. "If that's not an oil-tank, I'm a Dutchman," he exclaimed.

Unsuspectingly the tramp gave her name, port of clearance, and destination, and the nature of her cargo--crude petroleum. Then, to the astonishment of her skipper, the _Olive Branch_ made a peremptory signal for her to heave to.

To give the Russian credit he did not immediately accede to this demand. Smoke poured from the tramp's funnels in increasing volumes as she altered her course with the intention of seeking safety in flight. As well might a hedgehog seek to outpace a dog, for, with the last of her fuel the _Olive Branch's_ motors worked up to a speed of thirty knots, while a solid shell, passing twenty yards in front of the tramp's bluff bows, caused her to stop and reverse her engines.

"Pipe away the cutter," ordered Captain Brookes. "Mr. Palmer, you will please take charge--you know your orders, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," replied the lieutenant.

As the cutter ranged alongside the tramp's rusty sides her captain, a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily bearded Slav, began abusing the intruders, cursing them in a medley of all the seafaring epithets of Europe.

"Belay there!" exclaimed Palmer. "Don't worry, old fellow! All we want is some oil."

"Then you'll haf to want," replied the irate skipper, who spoke English with tolerable fluency.

"We mean to pay you a fair rate."

"No, no--I will not sell."

"Then we must make you."

"Pirate, eh?" sneered the Russian. "Me report you, an' you'll go so," making a rapid circle with his thumb and finishing with an upward jerk. "What's the name of your sheep?"

"The _Olive Branch_--isn't that good enough for you?" retorted Palmer, beginning to lose his temper.

The effect of this announcement was almost magical. The crew of the tramp, mostly fair-haired Finns, disappeared from her bulwarks, while the captain hastened to leave the bridge and lower a rope-ladder over the side.

Thirty seconds later Palmer and six of his men were in possession of the Russian vessel, and the cutter was sent back to the cruiser. Then, carefully manoeuvred, the _Olive Branch_ came alongside the tramp and the work of spoliation began.

The hoses were already connected up, and under the action of six powerful centrifugal pumps the precious oil was transferred to the tanks of the _Olive Branch_, till six hundred tons completed the carrying capacity of the cruiser.

This done, Captain Brookes made out a draft in payment and handed it to the Russian skipper, at the same time making him a present of a case of whisky, which the man received with an ill grace.

"We may as well give him a taste of the Z-rays, just to show there's no deception," remarked Captain Brookes as the _Olive Branch_ showed her heels to the tramp.

"Will the rays not effect the submarine cable between Reggio and Messina?" asked Gerald.

"What matters? If they want an explanation there are the subjects for theory," replied the captain, waving his arm in the direction of the invisible Etna. "Volcanic disturbances, eh?"

The Z-rays were accordingly released for ten minutes, during which time the _Olive Branch_ had passed the renowned Scylla and Charybdis of the ancients and was heading towards the port of Catania, sixty miles to the south'ard of the Straits.

"Wreck ahead, sir," reported the look-out.

Glasses were instantly levelled, and an object was discovered that at first sight appeared to be a small sailing craft lying on her beam ends.

"If that be the case, she's a rum sort of sailing boat," remarked Stockton. "She has a sail set on her keel as well."

"It's a monoplane," announced Captain Brookes. "The airman has come to earth on the water, to perpetrate an Irish bull. Stand by there, for'ard!"

Orders were given for the _Olive Branch_ to reduce speed, while the crew prepared for salvage work. In the course of a few minutes the distance had decreased sufficiently for the wrecked aeroplane to be plainly visible to the naked eye. Although it owed its buoyancy to the fact that two cylindrical aluminium floats were attached to the chassis, the disabled monoplane was deeply submerged. The engine was lost to view, the tips of the twin propellers just projecting above the surface, while the extremities of the planes dipped to each successive swell.

Seated up to his waist in water was the aviator, clad in a partially inflated rubber suit. He had already seen that aid was approaching, and with the utmost deliberation he had taken an air-tight case from his pocket. From this he drew a huge cigar, which he proceeded to light with an automatic lighter, puffing away with the greatest unconcern, as if a plunge into the sea in a monoplane was an every-day event.

"Steady on your helm, there," cautioned the captain, as the huge hull glided slowly to leeward of the wrecked aeroplane; then leaning over the rail he hailed "Ahoy, there! What's the length of your planes?"

"Fifteen feet," came the reply.

Noiselessly one of the cranes swung outboard; the block with its electrical grappling device was lowered, and engaging the framework fairly amidships, held it in a vice-like grip. The next instant the monoplane was swinging in the air, a cascade of water and oil pouring from every point of its complicated framework.

"You've come to grief, I see," observed Captain Brookes genially, as the airman slipped from his seat on to the deck of the cruiser.

"No need to tell me that, sir," replied the stranger, speaking with a pronounced American twang. "I guess I'd give a dollar or two to find out how she busted up. First time I've known an engine of the Maxfield Universal Gold Star Motor Company, of Petersburg, Pa., to play that low-down trick. But here's my card, sir: Sidney P. Flew, of New York City, and of Portland, State of Oregon; until a few minutes ago, on tour from Queenstown to Cairo by monoplane. What ship is this, sir?"

"You are on board the _Olive Branch_," said Captain Brookes, taking the piece of pasteboard.

"What, that durned pirate? Wal, if I ain't come out on top after all. Shake, sir! I'm that downright fortunate that I feel like pinching myself in case I'm fooling myself."

"Then you have heard of the _Olive Branch_?"

"Heard of her? Why, the whole of Europe and the United States have been talking about her. When I left New York the last words my pa said to me were, 'Sidney, young fellow, mind that durned _Olive Branch_ doesn't snap you up.' 'I wish she would,' says I. 'It would be the stunt of a lifetime, and you would be the proudest man in Broadway if you knew your son set foot aboard that vessel.' And now, here I am."

"Well, your wish is gratified, though I don't know whether your expectations will be realised, Mr. Flew," replied Captain Brookes, hardly knowing what to make of the young man's verbosity. "Meanwhile one of my officers will take you below. The hospitality of the _Olive Branch_ is at your service for a few hours at least."

"No need of refreshment at present, sir. Had breakfast at Cosenza not two hours ago. With your permission I'll dismember my machine and overhaul the engine before the salt-water plays the mischief with it. Durned if I can cotton to it! The motor was going like a clock, when all of a heap it stopped. Ignition all to blazes. So down I planed, like a ptarmigan with a broken wing."

"I think I can explain it," observed Captain Brookes. "I was compelled for certain reasons to let fly an electrical current, and unfortunately for you, your monoplane came within its influence."

"More luck!" exclaimed the American, enthusiastically. "Sidney P. Flew, of New York City and Portland, fired at by the electrical guns of the world-renowned cruiser, _Olive Branch_. What a heading for the New York Herald."

"He's a harmless young enthusiast," remarked Captain Brookes to Gerald, as the aviator turned his attention to the rescued monoplane. "You might take him in hand and show him those parts of the ship that are of no particular importance. As soon as his craft is all ship-shape, we'll start him on his journey. By the bye, I hear that the Turkish fleet is still in the Golden Horn, and that nothing is likely to transpire for a few days. What do you say to a run across to Malta?"

"I should be glad of the opportunity, if no inconvenience is caused."

"There will be none. Sinclair is going, so if you care to take your friend, Stockton, now's the opportunity. The cutter will take you into Catania, whence a steamer plies regularly to Valetta."

Tregarthen and Stockton had barely fifteen hours ashore at Malta, but not a minute was wasted. Gerald had a previous knowledge of the island, and was thus able to pilot his chum. His chief object in making the trip was to procure a lieutenant's uniform. Now that the Admiralty had given the sanction to Gerald's presence on the _Olive Branch_ he felt he could with propriety wear the uniform of his rank. So directly he landed at Valetta he hurried to a naval outfitter's, where by dint of promises of liberal payment he prevailed upon the Maltese tailor to have the uniform ready at the expiration of twelve hours.

"There's no time to be lost if we are to stop this business," was Captain Brookes's greeting on Gerald's return. "The Turkish fleet has cleared the Dardanelles at last. Turn in and take a good night's rest, for I'm sure you want it."

"One moment, sir--how's the airman?"

"Oh, he's a nuisance. Makes out he can't get his engine to work smoothly. I believe it's only an excuse to hang on. However, it can't be helped; I can't pitch him out at a minute's notice, so I've had the monoplane unrigged and stowed away beneath the armoured deck. After this business is over we can land him if he's still unable to fly. Look, there he is, talking to Palmer. By the bye, he seems very fond of that young fellow. Now, off you go, Mr. Tregarthen, for by sunrise to-morrow we may be cleared for action."