Title: Three short stories from 'THE CAPTAIN' volume XXVII - How Dymock Came to Derry; Jack Devereux's Scoop; The Powder Hulk
Author: Westerman, Percy F. (Percy Francis)
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Three short stories from 'THE CAPTAIN' volume XXVII - How Dymock Came to Derry; Jack Devereux's Scoop; The Powder Hulk" ***


Three short stories from "THE CAPTAIN" volume XXVII
by Percy F. Westerman



Three short stories from "THE CAPTAIN" volume XXVII
How Dymock Came to Derry; Jack Devereux's Scoop; The Powder Hulk

by
Percy F. Westerman



Mr. Percy F. Westerman has contributed these stories to "THE CAPTAIN,
A MAGAZINE FOR BOYS & 'OLD BOYS.'", volume XXVII, published in 1912,
by George Newnes, Limited, 3 to 12, Southampton Street, Strand,
London.



  Contents (in alphabetical order)

  How Dymock Came to Derry (original page: 219)
  Jack Devereux's Scoop (original page: 482)
  The Powder Hulk (original page 175)
    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III


List of illustrations

As Dymock rose to the surface the Frenchman snapped his pistol, and
the boatman aimed a vicious blow at his head with an oar.

Suddenly above the beating of the drums came a long-drawn whirr. "An
aeroplane," gasped Devereux. "Right," said his companion, "and we may
be blown sky-high. Look, the fellow is going to drop a bomb!"

He rested his revolver over the horse's body, and took careful aim.
Knowing that a slow and fearful death would follow recapture, he
vowed he would not be taken alive. (_illustrator: George Soper_)

As their boat rubbed sides with the mysterious craft, the boys saw
two motionless figures lying on the bottom-boards. Armitage clambered
in, and cautiously touched the form nearest to him. "They're the
water-police!" he cried. (_illustrator: E.S. Hodgeson_)

Realising he was discovered, the miscreant bounded over the remaining
distance between him and the powder hold, and raised the lighted
fuse. (_illustrator: E.S. Hodgeson_)



    HOW DYMOCK CAME TO DERRY

          - By -
    Percy F. Westerman


"WE'RE here at last, Kirke, and methinks none too soon," exclaimed
Captain Leake, of His Majesty's frigate _Dartmouth_, as he pointed to
the beleaguered city of Londonderry. "Now your part of the business
is to commence."

Colonel Percy Kirke, the defender of Tangiers, the man who had
exercised such diabolical cruelty towards the miserable peasants who
had taken up arms on behalf of the rebel Monmouth, was now about to
succour the Ulstermen, who were fighting for their lives and
liberties against King James--the colonel's former sovereign and
benefactor.

"'Tis not my business to throw troops against yonder entrenchments,
Leake," he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Until you can
force the enemy's defences my men will remain on board the
transports. Those rogues have held out for six weeks, and they can
well do so for another month."

"Does it seem so?" demanded Leake, indicating the smoke-enshrouded
buildings. "However, you have your orders even as I have, and since
you neglect to comply with them I must needs act alone." So saying
the gallant sea-captain turned on his heel and made his way to the
poop, whence he could command a better view of the scene of
hostilities.

It was in April of the year 1689 that the combined French and Irish
forces began what seemed to be a comparatively easy task--the
reduction of Londonderry. A handful of sturdy Ulstermen--of English
and Scottish descent--had bid defiance to the army of the deposed
King James, and, in spite of many a hard-pushed assault, had kept the
besiegers at bay. Then famine was made to do the work that the sword
had failed to accomplish, and in their anxiety the harassed defenders
appealed to King William for aid.

Troops were embarked at Liverpool, and the relieving squadron sailed
on May 16th, but, strange to relate, the English ships, in spite of
their having kept the sea, did not arrive off the mouth of the Foyle
until thirty days after.

Perspective glass in hand, Captain Leake made a careful examination
of the upper reaches of Loch Foyle. For miles on either side
batteries had been thrown up to contest the passage of the ships of
the relieving squadron; while to make doubly sure the French
engineers had constructed a massive boom from bank to bank at a spot
where the river is barely a quarter of a mile wide.

In spite of his redoubtable courage the captain's doubts arose when
he perceived the formidable obstruction. Strong baulks of fir, lashed
together with thick tarred ropes and secured to either shore by means
of twenty 4 in. cables, iron-shod stakes driven into the bed of the
river, and equally dangerous obstructions formed by boats filled with
stones and sunk in the Channel--all combined to present such a
powerful means of defence that at first sight appeared to be
absolutely impregnable.

Beyond the enemy's batteries rose the houses of the city, dominated
by the square tower of the cathedral, on which cannons had been
mounted and were keeping up a desultory fire upon the attacking
party. Here and there tall columns of black smoke rose in the still
air, showing that the foemen's mortars had set the houses on fire in
more places than one; but though the damage done by the bombardment
and frequent assaults was apparent, Captain Leake had no visible sign
of the presence of a still more dreaded foe--the famine that lurked
indiscriminately in both mansion and cottage.

Although the captain knew not of the full extent of this insidious
evil, his experience told him that something must be done.
Londonderry appealed for aid--she must not appeal in vain.

"Oh, for a strong northerly breeze," he muttered as he closed his
glass, then, walking to the head of the poop-ladder, he exclaimed
"Pass the word for Dymock to come aft."

In less than a minute Jock Dymock--a tall alert youth of
nineteen--stood bareheaded before his chief. The lad was serving
aboard the _Dartmouth_ frigate in the capacity of acting third mate,
having been chosen for promotion by the gallant Leake himself, who
was ever ready to remark any special signs of ability amongst the men
of his crew.

"Dymock, I've sent for you to undertake a desperate errand. Before I
say more understand that whether you elect to take this business in
hand or not is left entirely to your discretion. I will not order
you--I merely ask. Now, you are a native of Derry, I believe? You
know the coast well?"

"Not Derry born, your honour," replied the young Ulsterman. "Come
from Moville, over yonder. But I claim to know every sandbank and
every current in the loch, betwixt the Tuns and Derrybridge."

"Good. Now what I want you to do is this: take a letter to Governor
Baker, assuring him that we will take the first opportunity of
throwing a stock of provisions into the city. How you will
proceed--if you make the attempt, and knowing you as I do I feel
confident that you will--must rest with yourself; but at the same
time I shall be curious to know how you propose to act. When you have
decided upon that point let me know."

"I' faith, I'll do my best, sir," replied Dymock. "And my plans are
already laid. I mean to swim to Derry."

"It's a good five miles and in the face of the enemy on both banks,"
observed Captain Leake tentatively.

"With the tide 'twill be aisy, your honour. High water at the bridge
is an hour later than here, off McKenny's Bank. That will give me
seven hours' favouring tide, and on a dark night I'll cheat the
rascally Frenchman or my name's not Jock Dymock."

  * * * * *

At ten o'clock that same night Jock Dymock, stripped and smeared from
head to foot with soot and tallow, went over the side of the frigate
and entered the long-boat that was waiting alongside. He was unarmed
save for a short keen-bladed dagger slung round his neck, while
placed within a close-fitting cap was Leake's letter to the Governor
of Londonderry.

With muffled oars the boat's crew pulled up stream, guided by the
glare of the enemy's watch-fires. The young flood had just set in,
but on either hand the vast unbeaconed sandbanks still rose high
above the rippling water. Silently the men urged their craft up the
channel, taking their directions from Dymock's outstretched hand. The
creaking of a thole, an involuntary sneeze, or thoughtless word or
exclamation, would be sufficient to draw upon them a heavy fire from
the French and Irish musketeers who lay thick on either shore.

Presently, with an almost imperceptible jar, the long-boat's forefoot
grounded on the edge of McKenny's Bank. The daring messenger leapt
out and waited till the long-boat backed and was lost to view in the
darkness. Then, with every faculty on the alert, he set his face
resolutely towards the city of Derry.

At about every hundred yards Dymock had to cross one of the numerous
deep channels that intersect the sands, till further walking was
impossible at the edge of the main channel. Here he was within a
hundred yards of the northernmost of the enemy's batteries. He could
distinguish the sentries slowly pacing to and fro, their figures
silhouetted against the glare of the camp-fires.

As noiselessly as a water-rat the intrepid messenger glided into the
swift-flowing stream, and, swimming with a powerful breast-stroke,
soon began to visibly lessen the distance 'twixt him and his goal.
Now the outermost battery was left behind. Should the alarm be raised
his retreat would be cut off, for at the faintest suspicion, armed
boats, provided with bright lanterns, would push off and patrol the
narrow channel.

Against the loom of the lights he could see a low-lying dark mass
stretched across the stream from bank to bank. It was the boom. Fifty
strokes brought him up to the obstruction, but in vain his fingers
sought to find a hold upon the slimy weed-covered baulks of timber.
The suction of the current swept his legs beneath the woodwork, and
only by an effort was he able to kick himself clear of the floating
mass.

"Then if I can't climb I must needs dive under it," muttered Dymock,
for he felt that in the struggle his strength was failing him, and
unless something was done he would be pinned by the dark torrent
against the side of the boom.

Taking a deep breath he swam downwards. Dark as was the night the
utter blackness of the water was still more so. He was groping
blindly beneath the waves.

Already he had lost all sense of direction. He realised that he must
keep to the required depth and trust to the current to sweep him
beneath the floating mass of timber. He felt that he must rise--yet
dared not. His breath was well-nigh exhausted.

Suddenly he felt his body come in contact with a sharp pointed
object. It was one of the stakes fixed in the bed of the river. Then
the terrible thought assailed him--was the space enough betwixt the
tips of the stakes and the bottom of the boom?

Rising slightly he felt the tide sweep him past the obstruction. The
iron point scraped his flesh, but in his anxiety and with the
numbness of his body the pain was not worth noticing. It was mental
not bodily torment that he felt. Even as he rose his head struck a
barnacle-covered baulk, but with barely six inches to spare he was
swept betwixt his Scylla and Charybdis: then up and up he swam till
his head emerged above the surface and he drank in pure night air.

Turning on his back Dymock floated, breathing deeply and resting his
tired limbs. The worst of his journey was now over, thought he; with
the tide the passage betwixt the remaining batteries was merely a
question of time. Now he could discern the low ramparts, the
shattered houses, and the battered cathedral tower of the beleaguered
city. With renewed energy, fired by the sense of duty, he once more
struck out, though his strokes were more feeble than of yore.

But Dymock's assurances were short-lived. Rowing straight in his
direction was a boat--not one of the besiege's patrol craft, but a
small skiff manned by two rowers, who were taking a French officer
across the river.

Ceasing to strike out the swimmer allowed himself to sink till the
water rose to his lips, trusting that in the darkness his
soot-smeared face would escape notice. As he did so some salt water
entered his mouth, and, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, he
gave vent to a cough.

"Hey! What was that?" demanded the French officer, and bidding the
rowers desist he drew a lantern from beneath the stern bench and held
it aloft.

"There. On your bow!" shouted the Frenchman. "A rat-eating rebel!
Smite him over the head with your oar, Gaston."

The bowman stood up and aimed a vicious blow at Dymock's head, but
the swimmer dived.

"Back your oars, rascals!" exclaimed the officer. "He must come up,
then, _ma foi_, I'll wing him."

Drawing a pistol the Frenchman cocked the weapon and held it at the
ready, while the rowers backed, following the swirl that denoted the
course of the hunted man.

At length Dymock rose; only to find that his dive had proved of
little avail. The boat was within an oar's length of him.

The officer snapped his pistol, but the flint refused to draw fire.
With an oath he threw the weapon into the boat, and shouted to his
men to run down the fugitive.

Dymock dared not risk another dive. His breath would not last
sufficiently for him to gain any material advantage. He realised that
he must act--and that quickly.

_Swish_. The bowman's oar struck the water barely two inches from the
swimmer's shoulder. Ere the man could recover himself Dymock seized
the blade, and placing his feet against the side of the boat, tugged
lustily at the oar. The next instant his antagonist was struggling in
the water, but weighted down by his thigh-boots, the man sank ere he
could regain the boat.

Once more the scale turned in the Ulsterman's favour, for, having
only one oar remaining and the boat being unprovided with a
sculling-notch, the officer and his companion could not hope to
overtake the fugitive.


[Illustration: As Dymock rose to the surface the Frenchman snapped
his pistol, and the boatman aimed a vicious blow at his head with an
oar.]


By this time the noise had alarmed the troops on shore, and, seeing a
boat with a lantern partially concealed by its sides, they concluded
that 'twas an English craft attempting to gain the city. Immediately
a heavy fire was opened upon the luckless Frenchman, while Dymock,
swimming desperately, was already beyond the zone of the falling
missiles.

Without further adventure the swimmer gained the city quay, where the
gallant Governor Baker, to whom sleep seemed a stranger, was at the
head of his men, who, hearing the firing, had stood to their arms.

"We can give you but a sorry welcome, young sir, yet none the less
hearty," quoth Baker. "But what says Colonel Kirke?"

"'Tis from Captain Leake that I am come," replied Dymock, producing
the letter, which in spite of its oiled wrapper resembled a limp rag.

"Read it! Read it!" shouted the crowd of famished yet undaunted
citizens.

"The King's ships are in the Foyle, and Captain Leake promises that
an attempt will be made to break the boom at the first possible
moment," announced the Governor.

"And what of Kirke? What are his troops doing?" vociferated the
crowd. "Are we to be fed on promises?"

"Ay, what is Kirke doing, young sir?" asked Governor Baker. "A month
ago we heard that his troops were on their way to our aid."

"That I cannot say, sir." replied Dymock. "But concerning Captain
Leake's promises I can stake my life that he'll carry them out.
Further, to prove my faith in my chief, I'll right willingly remain
with you till I see the ships of the squadron break the
boom--fighting with you and faring with you, come good or ill."

  * * * * *

But in spite of Captain Leake's resolution the wind kept in a
south-westerly direction day after day, and the squadron remained
inactive in Loch Foyle. Meanwhile the deposed King James determined
to expedite the work of investment, and accordingly sent de Rosen--a
barbarous soldier whose instincts were little better than those of a
savage--to supersede Hamilton, who had hitherto exerted himself to
the utmost to subdue the city.

De Rosen behaved with such brutality that his methods even appalled
his royal master, and once again Hamilton assumed command over the
French and Irish allies.

Within the city things were going badly. Following famine came
pestilence; till with wounds, hunger, and disease the stout-hearted
Ulstermen's numbers were rapidly thinning.

Yet in spite of these adversities, the beleaguered garrison kept up
their courage: "No surrender" was their watchword. Londonderry would
hold out for King William till the last man perished behind the
crumbling defences. As for Dymock his energy was unbounded. Working
on the shattered ramparts during the brief intervals when the enemy
relaxed their activities, rushing to man the gaping breech caused by
the springing of a mine, or assisting in quenching one of the
numerous fires that the enemy's shot had caused with persistent
frequency, he behaved like a hero amongst heroes. Yet in common with
his comrades in arms he cast many anxious, longing glances towards
the loch, where the topmasts of the English squadron were to be seen
day after day in apparent inactivity.

At length, in the afternoon of July 28th, the wind backed suddenly to
the northward. The city was in a state of feverish excitement, and
the watchers on the cathedral tower were kept busily engaged in
satisfying the anxious inquiries of their fellows on the shattered
ramparts.

"No sign of any movement," was the answer, with monotonous and
depressing frequency, till at sundown the joyous cry arose, "The
ships are setting sail."

Soon Dymock, standing on the summit of one of the least damaged
bastions, saw the topsails of three large vessels rounding Muff
Point, while on either side of the river the allies were standing to
their guns ready to give the English ships a warm reception.

On and on they came till Dymock could see their black and yellow
hulls, as with wind and tide the rescuing vessels sped swiftly up the
Foyle.

"There's the _Dartmouth_," he exclaimed to those nearest him. "But i'
faith, I cannot say what the others are."

"They carry no ordnance," muttered one of the defenders gloomily.
"Perchance 'tis only a feint after all."

"Nay," replied Dymock, reassuringly. "My captain will never turn
back."

Silence fell upon the group of watchers. On and on came the three
ships, the frigate exchanged shots with the shore batteries.
Splinters flew in showers from the _Dartmouth's_ bulwarks and spars,
her canvas was shot through and through, but her well-directed fire,
dismounting guns and shelling the stone breastworks with equal ease,
drove the Frenchmen from their batteries.

Her two consorts, the _Mountjoy_ and the _Phoenix_, being unarmed
merchantmen, could not reply to the fire that was directed at them,
but taking their punishment with fortitude, bore steadily onwards in
dignified silence.

And now, under a hard squall, the _Mountjoy_ leapt ahead, as if the
elements meant her to accomplish her work. Amid a turmoil of
foam-lashed water and a rending of timber, her stout cutwater struck
the massive boom. There was a dead-weight of over 300 tons behind the
merchantman's stem; the best work of the French engineers was useless
to stop her, and with a barely perceptible pause she sheared her way
through the formidable obstruction.

The tense silence was broken by a cheer given with the last remaining
energy of the famished citizens, but the cheer froze on their lips,
for the next moment the _Mountjoy_ stuck hard and fast on the mud.

Instantly the French and Irish troops rushed for their boats that
lined the river bank.

"They're going to board her!" exclaimed the onlookers, as the troops
pushed off towards the stranded merchantman.

"Sure, they won't, I'm thinking," replied Dymock.

Barely were the words out of his mouth than the roar of a tremendous
broadside rose high above the crackle of musketry and the shouts of
the infuriated foes. The _Dartmouth_ had brought the whole of her
starboard guns to bear upon the would-be boarders. One broadside was
enough; the French and Irish broke and fled, leaving the _Phoenix_ to
profit by the _Mountjoy's_ misfortune and sail right up to the city
quays.

All that night the English warships cannonaded the batteries, while
in the relieved city the famished inhabitants were swarming round the
cargoes of provisions brought by the two gallant merchantmen, to the
accompaniment of a joyous peal from the bells of the cathedral.

Next morning the allied forces were to be seen in full retreat
towards Dublin, two long lines of smoking huts marking the site of
their encampment for the last hundred days.

At the first opportunity Dymock was rowed off to the _Dartmouth_
frigate. As he came over the side he saw Captain Leake standing on
the quarter-deck.

"Come aboard, sir," he reported, bringing his hand to his hat.

The captain turned and looked at the haggard and famished features of
his third mate.

"Back again, Mr. Dymock--good!"

That was all he said. Leake was a man of few words; but his
subsequent treatment of the young officer showed that the captain was
not slow to reward the man who swam to Derry.


    THE END.



    JACK DEVEREUX'S SCOOP

    The Story of a Young War Correspondent's Thrilling Experience
    in Morocco

    By PERCY F. WESTERMAN


[Illustration: Suddenly above the beating of the drums came a
long-drawn whirr. "An aeroplane," gasped Devereux. "Right," said his
companion, "and we may be blown sky-high. Look, the fellow is going
to drop a bomb!"]


"IT'S very unfortunate," remarked the editor of the _Intelligence_ to
his sub. "Arnold is in Tripoli in anticipation of a good 'story'
when a real fight does take place. He may get it or he may not--time
will prove. Baker is away in Panama waiting for developments. Cole is
down with some childish complaint or other, and the doctor won't let
him do a stroke. But Cole always was a man to knuckle under easily.
To cap it all there's this Morocco business taking everybody by
surprise, and the _Intelligence_ hasn't a man on the staff fit to be
sent. I'd go myself, by George! if I were twenty years younger."

"Why not give Devereux a chance?"

"Devereux? Why, he's only a youngster."

"Not more than twenty years younger than you are," replied Wilcox,
the sub-editor, slily. "He's eighteen, fairly smart at his work----"

"We want men who are more than _fairly_ smart."

"And trustworthy," continued Wilcox, ignoring his chief's
interruption. "You remember he's done some very good specials for us
on military matters."

"So he did; so he did. H'm, yes; he might do."

"I'll send for him," said the sub., eager to follow up his move, for
he took a big and good-natured interest in Jack Devereux.

Wilcox took up the telephone receiver.

"That you, Evans? Good! Tell Devereux to come up here."

A minute later a tall, alert-looking youngster walked briskly into
the chief's sanctum.

"Ah, Devereux! Wilcox has just suggested that you might represent us
in Morocco. There's every likelihood of something important taking
place there within the next few weeks. The attack on Fez has
completely taken us all by surprise. We want a man who will be able
to seize his chance if there is the remotest possibility of making a
good scoop. Are you willing?"

Devereux was; he had no home ties, and his ambition lay solely in his
work. "I'll go, sir."

"Good. You must catch the Calais boat-train this evening. Wilcox will
put you up to anything you feel shaky about. But, remember, the
interests of the _Intelligence_ are to be your chief consideration."

  * * * * *

"So you are the _Intelligence_ man? Say, we may as well chum up
together; only don't forget, sonny, we are rivals in the game, you
know. All's fair in the news hunt, you'll find out."

It was in the city of Fez--after Devereux had successfully completed
the five days' strenuous journey from Tangier. The speaker was Arnold
B. Craddock, the veteran war correspondent of the _Moonshine_, a
tall, gaunt individual of about forty years of age, whose
leather-like features, tanned by exposure to all sorts and conditions
of climate from the Arctic Circle to the Equator, were permanently
puckered into a thousand wrinkles. He was a citizen of the U.S.A.,
but had been acquired by the _Moonshine_ in order to introduce
hustling methods into that journal, and its proprietors, knowing
Craddock's reputation, looked for great things from their "special."

Craddock was dressed in a serviceable suit of khaki, with
double-breasted pockets. His legs were encased in untanned cowhide
boots and leggings. Across his shoulders were slung his prismatic
field-glasses, counterbalanced by a case containing an automatic
pistol.

Devereux's outfit was almost identical, except that he wore putties
in place of leggings, and a solar-topee, or sun-helmet, instead of
the wideawake affected by his American _confrère_.

"I won't forget," replied Devereux, extending his hand. "We are to
try and do each other as much as we possibly can, but be good pals
notwithstanding."

"Guess you've hit it," agreed Craddock, who felt he could afford to
be tolerant with the inexperienced youth whom the _Intelligence_ had,
in its mild form of insanity, sent out to represent itself. "But I
reckon, sonny, that if you are going to do anything at all you'd best
make a move. There's more than a 'squito buzzing around over there."
And he pointed towards the mountains, whence a faint rattle of
musketry was borne to the ears of the two journalists.

Without waiting for another word Craddock flung himself into the
high-peaked saddle of an Arab horse--a fine, full-spirited beast that
he had purchased from one of the "reconciled" inhabitants of the
captured city--and urged the animal at a furious pace towards the
scene of action.

"He knows that there's something to be picked up over there,"
muttered Devereux, nodding his head in the direction taken by the
American. "So the best thing I can do is to keep at his heels--if I
can."

The young Englishman's mount was but a sorry specimen of a
donkey--the only animal he had been able to procure. Devereux
literally stepped into the saddle, and with his feet dangling barely
eighteen inches from the ground, started in pursuit of his rival.

He was excited--that he was willing to admit--for within a few days
of setting foot on African soil--and beastly soil it was--he was
about to have a chance of smelling powder in real earnest.

The immediate environs of Fez consisted of a vast extent of
undulating ground, sandy and interspersed by low masses of rocks.
Here and there a few date-palms--the outlying sentinels of the
extensive oasis--afforded a slight break to the deadly monotony of
the sandy waste that extended to the base of the mountains.

"Not doing so badly, after all," soliloquised Devereux, as the
sure-footed little animal trotted through the soft sand,
instinctively avoiding all obstacles in the shape of hard rocks or
diminutive "khors" or ravines. "I believe I'm holding my own in any
case." For Craddock's horse had nearly exhausted itself in the first
half-mile, and was now floundering along and almost hiding its rider
from the Englishman's view by the cloud of dust from its labouring
hoofs.

Nearer and nearer the two correspondents drew to the scene of action,
Craddock still maintaining a lead of about four hundred yards.

From a spectacular point of view the engagement was disappointing,
for only an extended line of brownish-grey helmets was visible, as
the French Foreign Legion, taking excellent cover, maintained a rapid
fire upon a practically unseen foe. Beyond the short crack of the
rifles, the peculiar screech of the bullets, and the occasional
pop-pop-pop of the machine guns, there was little to indicate that
the troops were engaged, for the slightest mist given out by the
smokeless powder was quickly dispersed in the scorching atmosphere.
Occasionally two men would stagger to the rear with a wounded
comrade, place their motionless burden in a position of comparative
safety, and resume their places in the firing-line, while members of
the field ambulance party would cluster round the "case" like flies
to a honey-pot.

Presently Devereux became aware of a sharp zip somewhere in the
vicinity of his left ear. Instinctively he ducked, and at the same
time was almost blinded by a shower of sand thrown up by a spent
bullet that struck the ground barely ten paces in front of him.

In his excitement he grew angry.

"What do the bounders mean by taking pot-shots at me?" he growled;
but the next instant he realised that he was crossing the danger
zone, in which the bullets of the Berbers--who frequently aimed too
high--were coming to earth a good eight hundred yards in the rear of
the French lines.

Prudence suggested that Devereux should take cover behind some
friendly rock and watch developments, but there was Craddock still
making his way onwards towards the fringe of skirmishers. Where the
_Moonshine_ was the _Intelligence_ must surely be.

The American had reduced the pace of his horse almost to a walk--a
circumstance that Devereux thought remarkable if not foolhardy. As
Devereux drew nearer he saw that Craddock's mount was limping badly,
with a bullet graze on its fetlock; but ere the young Englishman
could hail the other the horse suddenly reared, then, falling to the
ground with a dull thud, pitched its rider over its mane.

By the time the _Intelligence_ special had joined the American,
Craddock regained his feet and ruefully contemplated his lifeless
steed.

"Hurt?" asked Devereux, laconically.

"Hurt? As dead as a door-nail, I guess. A hundred and twenty dollars
gone bust!"

"But yourself?"

"No; but I guess I'm a fool to try that sort of game, sonny. Ought to
have taken cover straight away. It's getting a bit thick. Here, turn
your precious animal loose, and let's lie low over there."

But Devereux was loth to leave his patient steed in the open.
Nevertheless he dismounted and led the ass to the shelter of a few
palms in the rock-enclosed depression. For nearly a quarter of an
hour the two correspondents watched the skirmish, till the Moorish
fire began to slacken, and the French, by alternate rushes by
companies, began to press home the attack.

"Now's our chance!" exclaimed Craddock, replacing his field-glasses
and shutting the case with an emphatic snap. "We'll make for the rear
of those fellows on the right flank."

Unscathed the two correspondents gained their desired position, and
were soon following up the extended line of infantry, who, advancing
by short rushes and dropping on one knee, were taking rapid yet
careful aim at the dull red spurts of flame betwixt the palm-trees.

"It's not going to be much, after all," exclaimed Devereux. "The
Berbers are bolting already."

"Don't be too cocksure, sonny," replied Craddock, glancing towards
the oasis as he paused in the act of writing in his note-book. "They
are----"

A loud, irregular discharge of musketry in the rear caused the two
correspondents, and many of the French infantry, to turn their heads
and gaze with mingled feelings at the new danger that threatened.

Out of a khor in the ground already traversed by the French troops
poured nearly a thousand Moorish hillmen, and in a moment the right
flank of the invaders was cut off and surrounded, while the centre
and left flanks, taken completely by surprise, were compelled to
execute a hasty, yet comparatively disciplined, strategic movement to
the rear.

"We're fairly trapped, by George!" ejaculated Devereux.

"Right for once," replied Craddock, coolly. "Stand by with your
revolver. Those varmints won't recognise the rights of
non-combatants, I guess."

The Berbers love nothing better than to come to close quarters with
their foes; and the gallant Foreign Legion realised that once their
ferocious adversaries came to hand-to-hand blows their own chances
would be small. Yet, in spite of the deadly magazine-rifle fire, the
mountaineers rushed in and were soon crossing steel with the French
troops who, shoulder to shoulder or back to back, defended themselves
by bullet and bayonet.

Presently Devereux became aware that the hammer of his revolver was
snapping harmlessly upon empty chambers. Hastily throwing open the
heated weapon he began to thrust fresh cartridges into the six
cylinders. But ere he could complete his task Craddock lurched
violently against his companion, and dropped inertly upon the sand.
As in a dream the Englishman saw his _confrère's_ note-book slip
from the American's grasp. Instinctively Devereux stooped, picked it
up, and thrust it into his own hip-pocket; and, standing astride the
prostrate form of his companion, prepared to defend both the American
and himself to the last.

Feverishly he strove to insert the remaining cartridges into the
chambers, but before this could be accomplished the butt-end of a
rifle, wielded by a desperate Legionnaire, caught the Englishman a
glancing blow, on the temple ere it descended with a crash upon the
skull of a Moor.

Thousands of lights flashed before Devereux's eyes, and, clapping his
hands convulsively to his head, he fell unconscious across the body
of his comrade and rival.

  * * * * *

When Devereux came to his senses he found himself lying on the ground
in the shade of a date-palm; his head was throbbing painfully, while
his arms seemed numb and devoid of muscular action. For some minutes
he lay still, wondering where on earth he could be, till the events
of the sanguinary conflict came home to him.

"The interests of the _Intelligence_ must be your first
consideration." The words re-echoed in his mind like a hollow
mockery. Something pressing against his hip told the young special
that his note-book, and Craddock's as well, were so far safe; but to
what purpose? Apparently they had escaped the attention of the Moors,
for everything else of value had been taken from him.

He turned his head with an effort, and saw Craddock lying by his
side.

"Hello, sonny! We're in a pickle, I guess." Devereux attempted to
rise, but found that he was securely bound, hand and foot.

"No use," continued the American, grimly. "They've trussed us up,
sure enough."

"We are prisoners?"

"I guess so. Look over there."

With an effort Devereux rolled over on to his left side. It was a
strange sight that met his view. He was lying in a valley surrounded
on three sides by lofty hills. A large part of the ground was
occupied by a Berber encampment. Between the irregular lines of
camel-haired tents swarmed hundreds of Moors, clad in long, loose,
white garments. Camels, horses, flocks, and bundles of merchandise
were huddled together promiscuously, while women and children had
taken the risk of being at the seat of war, and were mingling with
the throng.

The Berbers were evidently on the point of celebrating their victory,
for half a dozen Moors were making ready with drums and weird-looking
wind instruments to provide the music for their companions'
edification and amusement.

"Where are the French troops?" asked Devereux.

"Having a rest behind the walls of Fez, I guess," replied the
American. "Or those that got away, anyhow," he added, grimly.

"What's going to happen to us, d'you think?"

"Better not ask, sonny. Too many questions on a hot day are bad for
the liver."

Both men relapsed into silence, and watched the movements of their
captors. In a few moments the dance of victory was in full swing,
till the participants literally worked themselves up into a frenzy.

Suddenly above the clash of the beating of the drums came a
succession of sharp reports, followed by a long-drawn whirr.

As if by magic the dancers ceased their exertions, and gazed
skywards. The captives also looked in the direction of the strange
sounds.

"An aeroplane!" gasped Devereux.

"Right you are," assented Craddock. "We'll be right down lucky if we
escape being blown sky-high. Look, the fellow is going to drop a
bomb."

Soaring swiftly towards the Berber encampment was one of the French
monoplanes. Instead of the usual complement of two only one man
controlled the graceful flyer.

Presently, when almost over the camp, he tilted the planes, then,
leaning sideways, let fall a small, black object.

The Moors knew their danger, and began to rush for shelter in the
clefts of the rocks. Dropped from a height of about five hundred
feet, the bomb struck earth, and exploded with a terrific detonation.

From where they lay the two captives could not see the effect upon
the flying Berbers; but several of their camels and horses were
struck down by the fragments of the missile, while the correspondents
were nearly smothered in showers of sand thrown up by the concussion.

"The fellow has spotted us," exclaimed Devereux. "He's coming to the
rescue."

The monoplane alighted with hardly a jar at less than twenty paces
from the two prisoners.

Giving a hurried yet careful glance around to make sure that the
Moorish mountaineers had not recovered from the shock and were
returning, the aviator stepped to the ground.

He was a young man, probably not more than twenty years of age, and
was clad in the active service rig of a lieutenant of engineers.

"Messieurs, I am thankful to be of service--at least to one of you,"
he exclaimed in his own language, with which Craddock was perfectly
familiar, although his companion had but a smattering of French.

"You must know," continued the officer, as he deftly severed their
bonds, "that this monoplane will carry but two. You must therefore
decide, and that quickly, which of you will accompany me. The other
must take his chance of escape as best he can."

"You understand?" asked Craddock of his English _confrère_.

"Yes, I understand."

"Then off you get."

"Me--why? It's not fair. We are free to a certain extent, so let's
make a dash for it."

"Don't be a fool, Devereux. Why should two be sacrificed for one?
You're the youngest so get."

"It's not playing the game."

"Hang it! Get, I say, or I'll kick you on to the beastly monoplane!"

But Devereux refused to take the proffered chance; Craddock was
equally obstinate. The airman began to look anxious.

"We can't decide, monsieur."

"Then I must do so for you. Will you abide by my decision?" asked the
lieutenant. "_Bon!_"

Drawing a cigarette-case from his pocket the Frenchman produced two
cigarettes. One he deliberately broke in two, and threw one half on
the ground.

Then he turned his back to the two men for one brief instant, then
faced them once again. In his closed hand were the whole and the
broken cigarette, the tips showing evenly side by side.

"Choose, monsieur," he exclaimed, extending his hand towards
Devereux. "The whole cigarette means safety. Do not hesitate, for I
see the Moors are showing signs of returning."

The Englishman drew the broken one.

"That's done it, Craddock," he exclaimed, grimly. "Off you go. By the
bye, here's your note-book."

"How did you get hold of it?" asked the American, acutely, and not
without suspicion.

"You dropped it when you fell, and I picked it up," replied Devereux,
simply. "Look here, here's my copy. You might, as a favour, wire it
on as soon as you can for me."

"I will, sonny; but an hour after I've sent mine off to the
_Moonshine_. Personal feelings must stand aside when journalism is at
stake. All's fair in the news hunt, you know. Well, good-bye, and
good luck."

And, wringing the Englishman's hand, the American sprang into the
saddle-like seat. The French officer paused only to hand his revolver
to the Englishman with a significant gesture, then climbed into the
seat in front of the good-as-rescued man. The propeller began to hum,
and the monoplane rose gracefully in the air, raising a column of
sand as high as a four-storeyed house.


[Illustration: He rested his revolver over the horse's body, and took
careful aim. Knowing that a slow and fearful death would follow
recapture, he vowed he would not be taken alive.]


For a moment Devereux was thunderstruck. An hour after the
_Moonshine_ received its copy the _Intelligence_ would be blank as
far as its war news was concerned.

Yes, Craddock had scored.

Devereux gave a hasty glance in the direction of the Berber
encampment. There were several hieries still left unscathed, and were
peacefully browsing on the spot where they had been left hobbled. But
the Englishman dared not trust himself to seek safety in flight on
the precarious perch that a racing camel affords. Good luck! There
was a horse--a swift, powerful-looking beast by its appearance.

Casting off the halter the Englishman vaulted into the saddle and
urged the beast into a gallop, using the leather thong in place of
spurs. Nobly the animal responded, and soon Devereux had left the
mountains behind and was speeding over the sandy, tree-dotted waste.

Just then a rifle cracked, and a bullet whistled over his head. The
Berbers were in close pursuit. Bending as far over the horse's neck
as the high-peaked saddle would permit, Devereux urged his steed by
word and action. One rapid glance behind showed him that the
pursuers--for the most part mounted on hieries--were hot in his
tracks. In the soft sand he knew that the swiftest horse would stand
a poor chance against the ship of the desert.

There were nine of the pursuers; enough, in all conscience, and the
odds were greatly against him. They were gaining.

Drawing the Frenchman's revolver Devereux swung himself round, took
rapid aim, and fired. A bullet singing past his ear affected his aim,
and the shot was thrown away; but the second brought a camel and his
rider headlong to the ground.

This mishap caused the Moors to hesitate, and the pursued gained a
little; till, with redoubled spirit and furious erratic firing, the
pursuers resumed the chase with renewed energy.

With four cartridges left in his revolver, and eight Moors to be
accounted for, could he hope for safety? The sickening truth came
home to the fugitive: his horse was floundering.

Suddenly the animal's legs gave way beneath it, and it sank to the
ground, throwing Devereux over its head. Fortunately the ground was
soft and broke his fall; and in an instant the Englishman had
regained his feet, a shot grazing his ribs as he did so. One glance
showed him that his horse was dead.

Throwing himself down behind the carcase of the horse Devereux rested
his revolver over the body, and took careful aim. He realised that if
he could get in three successful shots the Berbers might draw off. If
not, there would be only one cartridge left, and the Englishman,
knowing that a slow and painful death awaited a recaptured prisoner,
swore that he would never be taken alive.

The Moors were dismounting from their lofty steeds, with the evident
intention of surrounding and rushing their solitary foe.

_Bang!_ Down went one white-robed figure, pitching heavily into the
sand.

_Bang! Bang!_ Two more. Devereux handled his weapon ostentatiously,
yet durst not discharge his remaining cartridge.

A regular fusillade came from the rifles of the remaining Berbers;
but, although the range was short and many of the bullets came
perilously close, none actually hit the desperate man at bay.

Seeing this the attackers made ready to resort to their natural
tactics, and, placing their rifles on the ground, drew their swords
and grasped their spears, and began to extend, preparatory to rushing
their foeman's position.

"Another half a minute will see the wind-up of Jack Devereux,"
muttered the young Englishman, as he took careful aim at the nearest
of his assailants--although he had no intention of using his last
cartridge on him. But the action was thrown away, for the Moor,
scorning the levelled weapon, bounded forward with a fierce yell, his
companions following his example.

Devereux hesitated. He felt unwilling to turn the weapon on himself
until his foes were almost within striking distance.

But the rush never matured. The Moors suddenly checked their furious
onslaught. One swarthy Berber pointed with his scintillating blade in
the direction of the city, and the five turned and ran towards their
hobbled camels.

Devereux looked over his shoulder, scarce daring to hope when hope
seemed dead.

Speeding across the desert was a troop of heavy French cavalry. He
realised that he was saved in the nick of time.

  * * * * *

In the stifling heat of the courtyard of the Press Censor's office at
Fez, Devereux rewrote his dispatch with feverish haste. The chance of
a great scoop was once more in his favour, for he learnt that the
monoplane, through a mishap, had come to earth about four miles from
the city. Craddock and his rescuer were in no real danger, and might
be expected to arrive at any moment.

In his shirt-sleeves, his head throbbing like a steam-engine, and his
limbs as stiff as a rusty piston-rod, Devereux wrote as he had never
written before. He had seventeen minutes to complete his task, for he
knew that the Censor's office closed at a quarter to five, and at any
moment he himself might be forestalled by his journalistic rival.

Metaphorically blind to the world, heedless of what was going on
around him, Devereux stuck gamely to his task till the final sentence
was completed. It was twenty minutes to the fateful hour.

The little lean-faced French officer took the proffered "copy," and
began to read it in quite a leisurely manner.

"Good!" thought Devereux; "take your time. Now you've started you
must finish; but I hope you won't before closing time."

At exactly the three-quarters the Censor _viséed_ the dispatch, and
handed it back to the correspondent. With a hurried expression of
thanks, Devereux took his leave, saw with satisfaction the officer
motion to an orderly to close the door, and continued his way to the
post and telegraph office.

"Hurrah! The _Intelligence_ will have it in time for the morning
edition," he exclaimed; as he stumbled out of the telegraph office,
having waited to make sure that the operator had made a move.

Meanwhile Craddock, mounted on a wretched transport mule, ambled into
the city. He grumbled mightily when he discovered that the Censor's
office was closed for the night; but reflecting that gold might do
the trick, he borrowed some money from an obliging officer, and made
his way to the telegraph office.

"Pardon, monsieur, but this dispatch does not bear the official
stamp," said the operator, suavely. "Without being _viséed_ I can do
nothing but refuse to accept it."

Craddock was checkmated. Persuasion and bribery alike were thrown
away, and disgustedly he prepared to return to his quarters.

"Anyway, to-morrow will do," thought he. "I've scored, after all's
said and done. I'm sorry for that youngster, though. He was green,
but he had grit. It's a pity he's gone under. Well, it's the fortune
of war, I suppose."

Entering the quarters assigned to the Press representatives the
American suddenly pulled up and stood stock still, with his eyes
bulging out of his head, and his mouth wide open.

He was face to face with Jack Devereux.

"Done you this time, Craddock," exclaimed the _Intelligence_ man,
affably.

"Snakes! You don't mean to say that you've----"

"Certainly," replied Devereux, throwing himself wearily upon his
couch, and stifling a yawn. "To quote your own words: personal
feelings must stand aside when journalistic reputation is at stake."

"How," began Craddock, bewildered and angry; "how----" He stopped
abruptly, for his successful rival was sound asleep.

  * * * * *

Next morning the _Intelligence_ came out with two and three-quarter
columns of news from the front, while the _Moonshine's_ space
reserved for the latest war news was as vacant as the expression on
the face of its puzzled editor.

Jack Devereux had made his scoop and his reputation in one stroke.


    THE END



    THE POWDER HULK
    By PERCY F. WESTERMAN
    Illustrated by E. S. HODGSON


    I


"IT'S no use, Harry. We're losing on every tack."

"Yes, I know. We've drifted quite fifty yards from that buoy. Shake
her up while I let go for'ard. We'll bring up here for the night and
carry on up to Flapperham with to-morrow's flood tide."

Harry Armitage, owner and skipper of the little 3-ton cutter _Spray_,
made his way for'ard. The head sails were quickly lowered, with a
rush and a rattle the chain cable flew through the fairlead, and with
her mainsail flapping in the keen breeze, the _Spray_ brought up head
to wind and tide.

"Now then, bear a hand with the mainsail, Jack; the sooner we get
this business over the better, for we're in for a dirty night." Jack
Standish, who filled every capacity on board the _Spray_ that the
skipper didn't, joined his companion and began to cast off the
throat-halliards.

"Aren't we too close to the powder-ship?" he asked, indicating a hulk
that loomed up darkly against the evening sky--a sky full of angry
tints from deep indigo to pale yellow.

"Too close? We're more than the prescribed 200 yards off. If you're
afraid she'll blow up, we may just as well be here as any other part
of the harbour, for I believe she has over a thousand tons of cordite
on board."

"I don't mind if you don't, only----"

"Only what?"

"I wish we were a little further off. I don't know why, but the fact
remains that I do."

The powder-hulk, whose name and description appear in the Navy List,
under the list of hulks available for harbour service, as _Bikanir_,
4th rate, 2,720 tons, hulk, floating powder magazine, R.N. Ordnance
Depot Sandborough.

She was one of five vessels built of teak in Bombay. Shorn of her
tapering masts, "housed in," and painted a bright red, she lay moored
in upper Sandborough Creek. Day and night a red flag fluttered in the
breeze, and day and night reliefs of two water-policemen belonging to
the Metropolitan Police, keep watch and ward over the highly
explosive cargo, the ignition of which would mean the total
destruction of every vessel and building within two miles of her, and
immense damage done to the town and dockyard of Sandborough. Apart
from the deadly monotony of an eight hour watch the two ship-keepers
whose duty compels them to be on board from ten at night till six in
the morning have a most uncomfortable time. Without lights or fires
they have to exist--keeping a sharp look-out for possible danger,
while they have instructions to make use of their revolvers if
suspicious characters come within a certain distance of the floating
magazine.

Should a fire break out, the ship-keepers have a few patent
extinguishers and an obsolete manual pump. While one man has to do
his best with these appliances, the other has to take a boat and row
off to a smaller hulk. Here are kept lanterns, rockets, and matches.
Three red lanterns displayed are the signal that a conflagration has
broken out, but the regulations say nothing as to what is likely to
occur between the discovery of the flames and the completion of the
lengthy task of procuring and exhibiting the danger-lamps.

Within a quarter of an hour from the time they let go the anchor, the
_Spray_ was snugged down, the riding-lamp was hoisted to the
fore-stay, and the crew turned into the small but comfortable cabin
for supper.

At about a quarter to ten the two lads--both of them were eighteen
years of age--heard the shrill blast of a steam-whistle above the
howling of the wind.

"There's the police-launch taking the reliefs," said Jack. "Let's
turn out and have a look at the poor bounders."

"All right," assented Harry, but as he gained the well, he turned and
exclaimed hurriedly, "Look sharp--hand me that light. Our
riding-lamp's blown out, and the launch is bearing down straight for
us."

It was an anxious moment, but to the lads' relief the red and green
steaming lights of the launch changed to red alone, and the craft
swept past the yacht at less than five yards distance.

"Good night, sergeant," shouted Harry, as the glare from the boat's
furnace lit up the rugged features of the coxswain. Both lads knew
the man well, for the _Spray_ was a frequent visitor to Sandborough
Harbour.

"Good night, sir," replied the sergeant. "Where's your riding light?
We----"

The remainder of the sentence was lost in the howling breeze.

"Bring that riding-light down. I never knew the thing to play me this
trick before," exclaimed Harry.

But with unaccountable obstinacy the lamp refused to burn.

"We must stand by till the launch returns," said Jack. "After that I
don't think there will be any more traffic till morning. Besides we
are close in to the edge of the mud."

Some minutes later the police-launch with the relieved men passed,
and was lost to sight in the darkness. The hulk, too, was invisible
in the blackness of the night. Except for the distant arc-lamps in
Sandborough Dockyard, where men were working in successive shifts
upon a battle-ship now nearing completion, the _Spray_ was surrounded
by a veil of impenetrable night.

"We may as well turn in," remarked Harry, "especially as we have to
be up early if we are to catch the young flood."

"Going to leave the lamp in the cabin?"

"No, what for? It's rotten having to sleep with a light swinging to
and fro three feet above your head."

Ere long Harry was sleeping soundly, but Jack lay awake upon his
narrow bunk. Though used to the lap of the water against the yacht's
side and the mournful moaning of the wind through the rigging, there
was something--which he could not explain--that drove slumber from
him. Even the ticking of the clock seemed to add to his inexplicable
feeling of uneasiness.

Presently he heard the sound of oars; not good lusty strokes, but
cautious, half-hearted pulls. The dip of the blades was just audible
above the noise of the wind, but the usual sound of creaking of
tholes or rowlocks was absent. Whoever it was rowing at this time of
the night, they were up to no good, thought Jack, because the oars
were muffled.

"Perhaps it's some beachcombers coming to sneak some of the yacht's
gear," he muttered. "I'll rouse Harry." But ere he could make up his
mind to do so the sound of the dipping blades grew fainter and
fainter. No doubt the yacht, showing no light, had been unnoticed in
the darkness.

"I'm hanged if I can stand this any longer," exclaimed the sleepless
youth. "I'll turn out and have a look round."

Fumbling in the darkness he found an oilskin coat with a sou'wester
stuffed into one of the pockets. After a tough struggle with the
refractory coat, which had stuck together in many places, Jack
managed to scramble into the obstinate yet serviceable garment. Well
it was that he did so, for on gaining the well he found that a light
driving rain was falling.

"Might just as well stick it," he continued, and sheltering behind
the after bulkhead of the cabin he looked into the darkness. He tried
to locate the powder-hulk. Her approximate position he knew, but
there was no visible sign of the storehouse of potential energy.

A thousand tons of cordite. The words seemed to revolve in his mind
with persistent frequency. One pound of cordite, under pressure,
would blow a man to smithereens; there are 2,240 pounds in a ton; in
a thousand tons----

"Whatever is the matter with my nerves to-night?" he exclaimed. "They
seem all on edge. To-morrow I'll----"

Suddenly a lurid red flash, quickly followed by a second, pierced the
darkness. A brief instant later and two muffled reports, just audible
above the now strong gale reached his ears. They were revolver shots,
and they came from the powder-hulk.



    II


"WAKE up, old man!" exclaimed Jack, darting into the cabin and
shaking his comrade.

"What's up?" asked Harry, awake in a moment.

"There's something up on board the powder hulk. They're firing."

Harry deliberately struck a match, lit the cabin lamp, then looked
his chum squarely in the face. But Jack, blinking in the light,
seemed too genuinely excited to play a practical joke; besides, his
streaming oilskins showed that he had been outside for some
considerable time.

"What do you think is the matter?"

"Goodness knows; but--rather a strange thing--a boat passed us some
time ago."

"Why strange?"

"She was rowing with muffled oars."

"Oh! We may as well go and have a look at the hulk. Are you game?"

"Yes," replied Jack simply. His sense of uneasiness had now entirely
left him, and beyond a tingling sensation in his throat he felt
fairly calm and collected.

"Cast off the painter, then," ordered Harry, as he completed his
hasty toilet. "I may as well take my revolver, though it's not up to
much."

The _Spray_, like many other small yachts, carried a revolver, for
use in case of emergency. As the skipper remarked, you might have the
weapon on board for a lifetime and never require it. On the other
hand, you might find it useful for summoning assistance. This
particular pistol had seen its day. It was an old-fashioned
percussion-capped Colt, taking nearly five minutes to load. Its owner
habitually kept one chamber, upon which the hammer rested, empty;
three were loaded with powder only, the remaining two had cylindrical
bullets in addition to the charge. If the weapon did not miss
fire--which was more than possible--it could be relied upon to make a
deafening row, if nothing else.

Thrusting the revolver into the pocket of his thick pea-jacket,
whence its muzzle projected a good two inches, Armitage jumped into
the stern-sheets of the nine-foot dinghy. Jack shipped the oars and
pushed off in the direction of the invisible hulk.

It was a strong pull, for the light cockleshell had to make headway
against a strong wind and tide, but Standish stuck to his task and
"kept his eyes in the boat," guided only by the direction of his
companion's extended hand.

"Steady now," cautioned Harry, as the bare outlines of the _Bikanir_
began to loom up in the darkness. "We're out of the tide here."

"And a thundering good job too," muttered Jack, pausing for one
instant to wipe the raindrops from his face.

Rowing with the utmost possible silence he brought the dinghy under
the stern of the hulk. Here, sheltered from the wind, the lads held
on to a massive mooring-chain, and waited.

Beyond the shrieking and hissing of the wind as it eddied past the
old two-decker, there was nothing to be heard. The hulk seemed a
silent as the tomb.

"I believe you're mistaken," whispered Armitage; "perhaps those
fellows you heard in the boat were wild-fowling by night."

"That won't do," replied Standish. "Firing is prohibited within the
limits of the Dockyard Port of Sandborough, and this part lies well
within the boundary. Come on--let's pull round to the gangway, only,
if we're challenged, we must reply pretty promptly, or the
consequences might be awkward."

As the two lads approached the wooden ladder they found that there
were _two_ boats made fast to the gangway. This looked suspicious,
for the watch-keepers were allowed one only, for the purpose of
communicating with the lamp-boat in case of emergency.

"That's not a government boat," whispered Armitage pointing to the
outside one, a kind known as a wherry. The boat was now within arm's
length, and taking hold of the gunwale, Harry peered into the
mysterious craft.

With a stifled exclamation he released his hold with a strong shove,
and the dinghy immediately drifted down stream.

"Pull in under the stern again," whispered Armitage excitedly.

"What is it?" demanded Standish.

"There are two dead men lying on the bottom-boards of that boat."

"Then the police have shot them. Those were the two shots I heard."

"Do you think so?" asked Harry. "It's the other way about, I fancy.
If the water-police had fired the shots they would have signalled for
assistance as soon as possible. No, Jack; I'm afraid it's like this.
Some rascals have shot the two watchmen and are up to some villainy."

"Perhaps they are not dead after all."

"May not be," assented Harry. "Come on; I've got over the shock now.
We'll see what's to be done."

Curiously enough both lads had no thought of rowing off to the
nearest ship for assistance. The fact that two unfortunate beings
might perhaps be badly injured, and in want of immediate aid urged
them to renew their investigations.


[Illustration: As their boat rubbed sides with the mysterious craft,
the boys saw two motionless figures lying on the bottom-boards.
Armitage clambered in, and cautiously touched the form nearest to
him. "They're the water-police!" he cried]


Once more the two boats rubbed sides. Standish held on while his
comrade clambered softly into the larger craft, and bent over the two
motionless forms lying on the bottom-boards.

They were the water-police. Armitage could distinguish the peaked cap
of one of the men. As he cautiously touched the form nearest to him
the man writhed. He was bound and gagged.

"Steady there!" whispered Harry. "I'm Armitage. You know--the fellow
in the yacht."

The man nodded his head in assent; and his rescuer, now satisfied
that he would not receive a blow from the brawny fist of the
policeman, deftly removed the gag and severed the man's bonds.

"Be careful with my mate, sir," said the first policeman. "He's been
plugged."

The second watchman was quite conscious, and when released, Armitage
found that the man had been shot through the left arm. The wound was
caused by a small-bore automatic pistol, and had cut so clean a hole
that there was very little bleeding.

In a few words the first man, whose name was Smith, whispered the
story of what had occurred. Five men had boarded the _Bikanir_, and
unperceived had gained the upper deck. Attracted by the voices of the
watchmen, who were conversing under the poop-deck, the rogues made a
sudden attack upon the unprepared ship-keepers. Smith was thrown on
his back, without a struggle, but Adams, the other man, drew his
revolver to fire at his assailants. Ere he could take aim he was shot
through the left arm, and the sudden sting of the bullet caused him
to press the trigger of his weapon and send the charge into the air.
A sharp tap on the head knocked all power of resistance out of Adams,
and the two men, bound and gagged, were placed in the boat alongside.

"Hadn't we better row you ashore?" said Armitage.

"Won't do," replied Adams grimly. "This wound of mine isn't anything
to speak of. We've made a mistake in getting taken unawares, but the
Force don't recognise mistakes. Come along, Tom--let's tackle the
fellows."

"I'm game," replied Smith, "Blest if the silly fools ain't left me my
revolver!" Sure enough, the weapon was still in the man's holster.
"Look here, gents, if I was you I would clear off as fast as you can.
There's no knowing what them chaps are up to with the magazine."

"Not I," replied Armitage quickly. "I've a revolver with me--not much
of a one--but it may come in handy. How about you, Jack?"

Standish thought of the thousand tons of cordite, but in quite a
different way from what he had done in the night. He meant to do his
best to save the stuff from doing incalculable harm to life and
property.

"I'm with you," he replied.

"Then the sooner we tackle the job the better," continued Smith.
"Those cowardly brutes may look over the side at any moment, although
it's precious dark down here."

Revolver in hand Smith crept softly up the ladder; Armitage, who had
turned the chamber of his weapon so that one of the loaded charges
would be fired first, followed at his heels; while Standish and the
wounded policeman brought up the rear.

Unobserved they gained the entry-port. The five rascals were bending
over the main hatchway, beneath which the explosives are stored. The
stout padlock and securing bars were rapidly giving way under the
persuasion of a file and a couple of crowbars.

"Make your way aft," whispered Smith, "We'll pepper 'em from there."

Just as the hatch-cover was burst open the four made a dash for the
shelter of the poop-deck. Standish tripped over a ring-bolt and fell
headlong, but Smith turned, picked him up as easily as if he were a
mere child, and dragged him under cover, to the accompaniment of a
regular fusillade of shots from the automatic pistols of the five
determined villains.

"What are you afraid of?" shouted one of the men in a guttural voice,
for some of the desperadoes were running forward. "Come with me and
settle them properly. They have no pistols."

With that the men stopped their flight, hung together for a few
seconds, then advanced, firing wildly as they did so.

Fortunately the poop deck was barricaded off by a 5 in. oak bulkhead,
sheathed with steel, that extended down to the hold, thus completely
isolating the magazine from the after part of the ship.

Revolver in hand Tom Smith waited, but Armitage, in his inexperience,
was not so cautious. Raising his weapon he fired into the cluster of
advancing men. The revolver _did_ go off this time, with a lurid
tongue of flame and a livid report that completely out-voiced the
sharp crack of the automatic pistols. But the bullet found no human
billet. It had the result of causing the attackers to turn tail and
make precipitately for the shelter of the fo'c'sle.

"Pity you didn't reserve your fire, sir," said the policeman
reprovingly. "We might have bagged a couple of them at the least."

"I'm sorry," replied Harry.

"Maybe someone ashore will hear the report," continued Smith. "It was
like a small cannon going off."

"I'm afraid not," said Jack. "I could only just hear the sound of the
first shots, and we are lying less than three hundred yards off. The
wind is so high."

"Then perhaps they'll see the flashes," added the man optimistically.
"At any rate, we can keep the brutes from tampering with the
magazine. They won't dare come aft since they know we've firearms,
the white-livered skunks!" Then came a lull. The desperadoes lay
still within their defences, while their antagonists kept on the _qui
vive_ ready to open fire at the first sign of renewed activity on the
part of their foes.

"We've trapped them!" exclaimed Armitage, who was busily engaged in
breaking out bullets from the policeman's cartridges and ramming them
into the chambers of his revolver. "It will be daylight in an hour."

"The relief boat doesn't turn up till six," observed Adams. "I reckon
they won't wait till then. They will make a bolt for it."

"We'll cut off their retreat then," added his comrade. "Look here,
sir," addressing Standish. "Do you think you could manage to pull off
to the light-boat and get the lanterns and the rockets?"

"I'll have a shot at it," replied Jack, although he did not relish
the idea of making his way across the upper deck to the gangway and
being the target for five automatic pistols.

"No, not that way," exclaimed Smith hurriedly, as Jack prepared to
make a dash across the danger zone. "Can you swim? Good. Slip your
things off and I'll lower you from the stern gallery. You can then
swim to your boat and row off for the gear."

"Look here," exclaimed Standish as he was divesting himself of his
clothing. "I wonder if I could tow the other two boats with our
dinghy? Then the rascals' retreat would be fairly cut off."

"Not against this wind, even though the tide has turned," replied
Smith. "You'd find yourself blown half way up to Flapperham in a
brace of shakes. But I'll tell you what. There's plenty of rope on
board. You might run off a line to the light-boat, and haul the other
boats off to her. When you get to your dinghy pull up under the stern
and I'll drop a coil down to you."

"Now I'm ready," announced Jack.

"Bill," exclaimed the policeman, addressing his comrade. "Hang on to
my pistol for half a shake, while I lower this gent. How's your arm?"

"Fairly nippy, but it's of no consequence, being my left," replied
the man. "When you've been shot through the stomach with a Mauser
bullet and through the forearm with a soft-nosed bullet like I have,
a little scratch like this don't signify."

It was horribly cold, being lowered feet foremost into the water.
Jack would have much preferred to take a header, but once fairly in
the chilliness vanished, and he struck out for the gangway, keeping
close to the barnacled side of the towering hulk.

Clambering into the dinghy, he rowed to the stern of the _Bikanir_
and took the coil of rope on board. The execution of his plan
necessitated a double journey; first to the light-boat, then to the
two boats tied to the gangway; then back to the light-boat, to which
he hauled the sole means of the desperadoes' escape. This done he
took the three red lanterns, half a dozen rockets, and a box of
matches, and returned to the powder hulk.

"Now what's to be done with the dinghy?" he exclaimed, after he had
fastened the procured articles to a rope and sent up to Armitage who
was ready to receive them. "We can't leave her made fast here, and we
don't want to turn her adrift."

"Throw up your painter and make fast the rope to the after
ring-bolt--we'll haul her up to the stern-gallery," replied Harry.
"Look sharp; they're going to send up a rocket and then the fun will
commence. The lanterns are already lighted."

"I thought the fun commenced a long time ago," remarked Standish as
he swarmed up the rope and gained the stern-walk.

"Now then, sir, stand by for a rush," continued Smith, gripping his
revolver resolutely, as Adams struck a match and held it to the
touch-paper of the rocket.

_Swish!_ With a rush and a roar the rocket soared skywards, and,
bursting, gave out a brilliant blue light that threw the deck of the
hulk into strong relief.

It was like disturbing a nest of wasps. The five men emerged from the
fo'c'sle. Four of them ran blindly for the gangway. Smith's revolver
cracked, and one pitched forward on the deck, jerked his limbs once
or twice and then lay still. This time the shot failed to stop the
rush. The policeman fired again while Armitage, cocking and
discharging his antiquated weapon as fast as the could, joined in the
attempt to repulse the rush. But, apparently unscathed, the three
gained the entry-port and disappeared down the ladder.

"Bad luck to 'em!" exclaimed Smith as he ejected the smoking
cylinders from his weapon. "They've got to choose now between death
by drowning or penal servitude for life. I----"

"Look out," yelled Standish, in accents of alarm.

The fifth man had, unperceived by the defenders, retraced his steps
to the fo'c's'le, and now, with a hissing fuse in his hand, was
creeping stealthily towards the partly covered main hatch.

"Wing him, or he'll blow the ship to atoms," shouted Smith, as he
feverishly thrust fresh cartridges into his revolver. But Armitage
had fired his last shot.

The miscreant, knowing by the policeman's shout that he was
discovered, bounded over the remaining distance betwixt him and the
gaping hold. Then with one foot upon the coaming he raised the
lighted fuse. _Bang! Bang!_ Smith's revolver kicked  t w i c e  i n
q u i c k  succession.

"Got him, by George!" exclaimed the policeman, and the man staggered
and clapped his hand to his chest.

But the exclamation of exultation was changed to one of horror as the
desperate scoundrel, still grasping the spluttering fuse, lurched
forward and disappeared down the hold.



    III


[Illustration: Realising he was discovered, the miscreant bounded
over the remaining distance between him and the powder hold, and
raised the lighted fuse.]


FOR fully thirty seconds the policeman and the lads remained rooted
to the spot, gazing with horror-stricken faces at the gaping
hatchway. The momentary expectation of the explosion--the swift
upward blaze of fiery light; the awful concussion, the disintegration
of the hulk, was pictured under fearfully realistic conditions. A
swift death, yet terrible to contemplate.

Even as they waited they saw the fuse, fanned into flame by its
flight, had ignited a part of the hold, and a dull glare was playing
upon the sides of the coamings. Yet the explosion had not taken
place.

Smith was the first to find his voice.

"Perhaps the fire has fallen clear of the cordite," he gasped. "Man
the pump; it's our one chance."

The hose of this relic of years past was fortunately already
connected, and the two lads frantically turned the heavy crank while
the policeman directed the muzzle. Meanwhile Adams had remembered the
extincteurs; but in his excitement he threw them down the hold
without attempting to unscrew the patent heads, and this means of
fighting the flames was absolutely wasted.

But a few revolutions of the pump resulted in a steady flow of water.
The flames turned to smoke, and in a few minutes the danger was
passed.

But now the tardy assistance was at hand. Steam-launches and pinnaces
from the ships in harbour tore pell-mell towards the signals of
distress. Bluejackets, scorning the risk they ran, swarmed up the
decks of the _Bikanir_. Additional hoses were brought into action,
and in less than a quarter of an hour the hold was flooded.

Daylight was now breaking. Jack, pale-faced and breathless, pointed
to where the _Spray_ was now plainly visible, riding to the
flood-tide.

"Let's scoot," said he. "I've had enough of this to last me a
lifetime."

"Smith," exclaimed Armitage, "we're off. Mind, we don't want to be
dragged into this business."

"Very good, sir, and thank'ee for what you've done," replied the man,
earnestly. "I'll tell my mate to keep his mouth shut as far as you
are concerned."

Half an hour later the _Spray_, with her exhausted crew, was beating
up channel towards Flapperham.

  * * * * *

Strange to relate, it afterwards transpired that there was not a
pound of explosive on the hulk. A week previously the ordnance people
had removed the cordite to the shore magazine. It was no business of
the water police to know what the ordnance men did, and by an
oversight that department failed to notify the superintendent of
police that the watchmen might be withdrawn.

Who the desperadoes were was never known. The body of the most daring
of the miscreants was found, badly burned, in the hold. The man who
was shot during the rush to the gangway died in hospital the next day
without regaining consciousness; while at low water the bodies of the
three men who fled down the ladder were found lying on the mud, so
the whole of the active members of the gang were accounted for.

As for Smith and Adams, they did well out of the business, both being
made sergeants in recognition--so the report states--"of their
bravery in frustrating, _when absolutely unsupported_, a daring
attempt by five unknown miscreants upon the powder-hulk _Bikanir_."

    THE END.



  [Transcriber's Notes:

    "THE CAPTAIN, A MAGAZINE FOR BOYS & 'OLD BOYS.'"
    was a monthly magazine for young boys. It contained articles
    about how to make things yourself, about schools, photography
    and short stories by different authors. The magazines were
    also published collectively as half-year volumes. In 1912
    volume XXVII appeared that included three stories by
    Percy F. Westerman.
    Those stories are presented in this ebook, with the
    addition of a contents-list and an illustrations-list.

    This book contains a number of misprints.
    The following misprints have been corrected:

      [an attempt will made to] ->
         [an attempt will be made to]

      [ejacuated Devereux] -->
         [ejaculated Devereux]

      [asked the American, cutely,] -->
         [asked the American, acutely,]

      [One warthy Berber] -->
         [One swarthy Berber]

      [she ay moored] -->
         [she lay moored]

      [are th signal that a] -->
         [are the signal that a]

      [the cluste of] -->
         [the cluster of]

    Obvious punctuation/spelling errors were corrected without note.

  ]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Three short stories from 'THE CAPTAIN' volume XXVII - How Dymock Came to Derry; Jack Devereux's Scoop; The Powder Hulk" ***

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