Part 39 (1/2)

”Since you can't undertake any salvage operations with the mails on board, I don't mind admitting that I'm far from sure. You see, we have only one navigator, and if you were forward just now you would hear him raving. I've got to take her somehow--on dead reckoning--to the Canaries.”

The mate opened his mouth and gasped. ”Well,” he said simply, ”may I be ----!”

”I suppose that's natural, but it isn't much use to me. I've been creeping along the coast, so far, but it's evident that if I stick to it I won't reach Las Palmas. I want a definite point from which to make a start for the ocean run.”

The mate pulled a pin out of the chart, and, measuring with the dividers, stuck it in again. ”You're not quite so much out as I expected you would be,” he said. ”It's a straight run to the Isleta, Grand Canary. Whether you'll ever get there with the compa.s.s and the patent log is another matter, though, of course, if you go on long enough, you'll fetch some part of America. I don't want to be unduly inquisitive, but you will have lost, at least, an hour of our time before I put Pills on board again, and I really think there is a little you should tell me.”

Austin briefly outlined his adventures, and when he had finished the mate brought his fist down with a bang on the table.

”Well,” he said, ”you have evidently excellent nerves of your own, and I'm not quite so sure as I was that you'll never get her home. I don't mind admitting now that at first I thought you were crazy. It's evident that your compa.s.s and patent log are all right, but you'll have to get your lat.i.tude and longitude, at least, occasionally, and I'll bend on some signals any skipper you come across would understand. If he's particularly good-natured he might chalk it on a board.”

He stopped a moment with a little sardonic smile. ”As a matter of fact, it's not quite so unusual a question as you might suppose.”

Austin thanked him profusely, and felt a good deal easier when he and the mailboat's doctor, who arrived presently and gave him good advice, went away. Then, with a blast of her whistle, the _c.u.mbria_ steamed on to the West again, and it was three or four days later, and she was plunging along with dripping forecastle at a little over six knots against the trades, when Austin had trouble with Jefferson. He was asleep in his room, aft, and, awakening suddenly, wondered for a moment or two what was wrong, until it dawned on him that it was the unusual quietness which had roused him. Then he sprang from his berth and hastened out on deck, for it was evident that the engines had stopped.

There was clear moonlight overhead, and the s.h.i.+p was rolling heavily, while as he looked forward a clamour broke out beneath the bridge, where grimy men came scrambling up from the stoke-hole gratings. It was light enough for him to see their blackened faces and their excited gestures.

Other men were, he fancied, from the pattering on the iron deck, also moving in that direction from the forecastle; but what most astonished him was the sight of a gaunt white figure pacing up and down the bridge.

While he gazed at it, Wall-eye came running towards him breathlessly.

”The Senor Jefferson has stopped the s.h.i.+p!” he said. ”He has a pistol, and Maccario, who is shut up in the wheel-house, shouts us that he will go back to Africa again!”

Austin, who knew a little about malarial fever by this time, ran forward, and met Tom at the foot of the bridge ladder. The latter laid a grimy finger on his forehead significantly.

”Right off his dot! I don't know what's to be done,” he said. ”It would be easier if he hadn't that pistol.”

A gong clanged beneath them while they considered it, and Tom shook his head. ”He has been ringing all over the telegraph, from full speed to hard astern,” he said. ”I don't know if he'd give you the pistol, but when I got half way up the ladder he said he'd put a bullet into me. Any way, if you went up and talked to him while I crawled up quiet by the other ladder, I might get him by the foot or slip in behind him.”

Austin was by no means anxious to face the pistol, but it was evident that something must be done, and he went up the ladder as unconcernedly as he could. When he reached the head of it Jefferson beat upon the wheel-house window with his fist.

”What's her head to the westwards for?” he said. ”Port, hard over! Can't you hear inside there?”

The steering engine rattled, and it was evident that the helmsman was badly afraid, but in another moment Jefferson had swung away from the wheel-house, and was wrenching at the telegraph again.

”What's the matter with these engines?” he said. ”I want her backed while I swing her under a ported helm. I'll plug somebody certain if this is a mutiny.”

He opened the big revolver, and closed it with a suggestive click, while it cost Austin an effort to walk quietly along the bridge. Jefferson's eyes were glittering, his hair hung down on his face, which was grey and drawn, dark with perspiration, and his hands and limbs were quivering.

His voice, however, although a trifle hoa.r.s.er, was very like his usual one, so much so, in fact, that Austin found it difficult to believe the man's mind was unhinged by fever. He whirled round when he heard Austin, without a trace of recognition in his eyes.

”Now,” he said, ”why can't I get what I want done?”

”You're very sick,” said Austin quietly. ”Hadn't you better go back to bed?”

Jefferson laughed. ”Yes,” he said, ”I guess I am, or these brutes wouldn't try to take advantage of me. Still, in another minute you're going to see me make a hole in somebody!”

He leaned heavily on the bridge rails, with the pistol glinting in his hand, and Austin endeavoured to answer him soothingly.

”What do you want to go back to Africa for?” he said. ”There wouldn't be any difficulty about it if it was necessary.”

”Funnel-paint's there. They brought me away when I was sick, or I'd have killed him.” He made a little gesture, and dropped his hoa.r.s.e voice.