Part 5 (1/2)

”You've no right to make me work, d.a.m.n you!”

”Very good,” answered Calamity in that quiet voice which those who knew him dreaded more than the most curseful outpourings. ”You shall be a pa.s.senger as long as you wish. Take him back to the foc'sle, Mr. d.y.k.es, and send the carpenter to me.”

”Very good, sir,” replied the mate, greatly wondering.

By the time the carpenter had received his instructions and departed to carry them out, the mate reported that the girl, whose clothes had been dried in front of the galley fire, was ready to be interviewed.

”Fetch her along then, Mr. d.y.k.es,” said the Captain.

A few moments later Miss Fletcher entered the cabin accompanied by the mate. She was, without doubt, the most remarkable young woman that either Calamity or his mate had ever set eyes on. Tall, and almost as powerfully built as a man, her face was nearly the colour of mahogany through constant exposure to the weather. Her eyes, a clear, cold grey, had an almost challenging steadiness and directness of gaze, and she held her head high as one who is accustomed to look the whole world squarely in the face. Her whole manner was a curious blending of authority and aloofness, suggesting a very difficult personality to deal with. But, if lacking much of conventional feminine charm, there was a freshness and vigour about her that was eminently pleasing. One womanly attraction she certainly did possess in abundance, and that was a wonderful ma.s.s of chestnut hair which she now wore tightly plaited round her head. For the rest, this extraordinary young woman was attired in a short, blue serge skirt, a man's blue woollen jersey, and a pair of rubber sea-boots.

”Sit down,” said the Captain.

The girl obeyed, looking at Calamity with an expression of mingled perplexity and resentment. This may have been due to a little feminine pique at his seeming indifference to her s.e.x--for he had not risen to his feet, nor had his face relaxed from its usual stern grimness. Or it may have been due to the fact that his gla.s.s eye was c.o.c.ked fully upon her with its unswerving, disconcerting stare. The other eye--the practical one--was not looking at her at all, but was meditatively gazing down at the table.

”The man who was with you in the boat tells me that you are the daughter of the Captain of a barque,” he said. ”His story was not altogether satisfactory, so I should like to hear your version--as briefly as possible,” he added with a snap.

A slight flush of annoyance tinged the girl's face. Evidently she was not used to being treated in this curt, unceremonious manner, and resented it. Mr. d.y.k.es, who was very impressionable where the opposite s.e.x was concerned, mentally compared the Captain's att.i.tude with what his own would have been under similar circ.u.mstances.

”My name is Dora Fletcher, and my father, who was killed during the recent storm by being knocked overboard, was John Fletcher, master and owner of the barque _Esmeralda_ of Newcastle,” said the girl in a voice as curt as Calamity's own. ”We were bound from London to Singapore with general cargo. During the height of the storm, the vessel sprang a leak and the crew took to the boats, but I doubt if any of them survived.”

”So you and the bos'n, Jasper Skelt, were left on board?” said the Captain as the girl paused.

”Yes; Skelt would have gone with the men, only they threatened to throw him overboard if he did. He's a d.a.m.ned rascal.”

Mr. d.y.k.es started and even looked shocked. It was not so much the expletive itself which had disturbed his sense of propriety, but the cool, forceful manner in which it was uttered; obviously it was not the first time that Miss Fletcher had availed herself of this, as well as of other masculine prerogatives.

”You have the s.h.i.+p's papers?” asked Calamity.

For answer the young woman drew from beneath her jersey a packet of papers which she handed to the Captain. He glanced through them and then handed them back to her.

”I should prefer to leave them in your charge till I am put ash.o.r.e,”

said the girl. ”What port do you touch first?”

”I can't say. This is not an ordinary merchant s.h.i.+p, but a licensed privateer.”

”A privateer! Then you expect to fight?”

”You will arrange what accommodation you can for Miss Fletcher, Mr.

d.y.k.es,” said the Captain, ignoring her question.

”Yes, sir; I suppose she will have her food in the cabin, sir?”

”Not in this one, Mr. d.y.k.es.”

Again the hot, angry blood rushed to the girl's face and she turned a pair of blazing eyes on the Captain.

”Thank you for that privilege, at any rate!” she said with furious sarcasm.