The others took him seriously. There was some talk of sending a deputation to the Captain to ask him to reconsider the matter. But no one volunteered for the task. Captain Corbold usually had a way with deputations. They had seen him deal with one from the hands of the Starboard Watch.
"You go, Davis," suggested Capperley.
The Welshman found a chance to wink at Geoff and Bernard. Merrifield was out of his range of vision. Provided the junior cadet didn't butt in there was a chance for Davis to make capital out of his joke.
"Right-o," he agreed. "At least the four of us—Woodward, Ensor, Merrifield, and myself—will tackle the Old Man. If we get him to change his mind over jamming our leave what then?"
"You'll earn our gratitude, old son," declared Fairclough.
"Not good enough, my festive," objected the wily Welshman. "Look you; gratitude is cheap enough. Supposing—only supposing, mind you—that we pull this business off; are you other fellows game to stand a bust-up at the Babylonia?"
"What's the Babylonia?" inquired Setchell—one of the "first year" cadets.
"Sort of café and music hall in Rio," replied Davis. "They give a top-hole show. Well, is it a deal? You fellows to stand exes for the four of us, provided we make it all right with the Old Man over this leave business."
"What'll it be costing?" asked McKie cautiously.
"Less'n a dollar a head, including grub," was the answer. "Is it a deal?"
The others agreed.
"Hop aft and see him now," suggested Fairclough.
Davis shook his head.
"He's in too much of a paddy, look you," he objected. "Wait till he cools down. We'll push along and beard him in his den at eight bells, won't we?"
Geoff and Bernard nodded assent. They were beginning to "tumble to" the Welshman's ruse. Merrifield, still in the dark, began to expostulate.
"Shut up, you idiot!" exclaimed Davis. "After all, you are the cause of all this rumpus. You ought to tackle the Old Man by yourself. As it is we nobly share your burden, so dry up. That's settled then. At eight bells."
"What's that fellow Davis driving at?" remarked Geoff, when the two chums found themselves alone. "It's rather a rotten joke making out that the Old Man is a bit of a tyrant."
"Blest if I know," replied Bernard. "As a matter of fact I thought the skipper was too until he explained why he kept us going up aloft. He's a tough sort of customer, I admit, but he's white all through."
"All that," agreed his chum heartily.
CHAPTER XIII. The Ship that Passed in the Night
The North-east Trades bore the good ship Golden Vanity rapidly southwards. Everything pointed to a quick passage; and, although the Blue Bird had not been sighted since off Dungeness, everyone on board the Vanity hoped that they had outsailed their rival.
From the Start to Rio is roughly 4950 miles. The distance is the same whether performed under sail or by steam. At first sight this seems rather a superfluous statement, but it must be remembered that under sail the shortest distance is often not the quickest. For example, from Plymouth to The Cape is 5882 miles by the recognized mail-boat route. A sailing-ship, making the same voyage, if she is to make a quick passage, and take advantage of known currents and winds, has to cover 7200 miles.
A few degrees north of the Line the Golden Vanity's luck was out. She ran into a belt of calms. For days she floated idly upon the oily, glaring-surfaced water, outwardly motionless, although hourly she was being set east of her true course by the Equatorial current.
By this time the chums were beginning to realize some of the disadvantages of "masts and yards". Hitherto the voyage, with one exception, had been of the nature of a pleasure cruise. For days on end there had been little necessary work to be performed. Hardly a sheet required to be touched or a sail trimmed during several successive periods of twenty-four hours.
But once out of the influence of the Trades, the case was very different. Bernard and Geoff had had experience of calms as yachtsmen in British waters know them—a few hours at most of idle drifting within sight of land, followed by a spanking whole-mainsail breeze.
Day after day of exasperating calms was quite another matter. Within a few minutes after dawn the sun would shoot up in a blaze of glory into an unclouded sky. Then steadily it would climb across the vault of heaven until it was almost directly overhead. Throughout the afternoon it would move slowly until the lengthening shadows heralded the close of another day. Then, still in an unclouded sky, the brilliant orb would turn a dull red, apparently increase in magnitude, and plunge quickly beneath the horizon.
Five minutes later it would be night. Myriads of stars would powder the firmament and make slow procession from east to west. Not the faintest suspicion of a zephyr cooled the heated air or ruffled the mirror-like surface of the star-spangled ocean.
At the end of three days of this sort of thing, the chums realized what deadly monotony was. It was too hot to want to eat. Food—hard tack and tinned stuff by this time—no longer appealed to their jaded appetites. They were in a sort of vapour bath from morn to night. Even the hours of darkness brought scant relief. To attempt to sleep in their bunks, even with scuttles open, was merely a matter of tossing uneasily on the hard mattress until they were roused to stand their "tricks".
The while not a sail appeared in sight to break the tediousness of the situation. By day sea and sky met in an unbroken circle. Overhead the sails hung limply from their yards or drooped forlornly from the stays. The decks were too hot for anyone to tread barefooted. If water were thrown over the sweltering planks, the moisture, rising in clouds of vapour, would evaporate within a few minutes. Refuse dumped overboard floated alongside for hours.
Although watches were kept as strictly as usual, there was little to be done. The helmsman stood by the idle wheel, knowing that it was useless to put the helm either up or down. Drifting helplessly the Golden Vanity would frequently turn through all the thirty-two points of the compass half a dozen times a day. It was useless to trim sails. The whole press of canvas that in the Trades had driven the ship at a good twelve knots, would not now move her a foot an hour.
Nevertheless, a sharp look-out had to be kept for the first indication of a breeze ruffling the mirror-like surface. When it came it might come suddenly and with terrible ferocity, and woe betide the luckless ship caught unawares and taken aback!
Captain Corbold was too experienced a "masts and yards" to risk such a disaster—for disaster would inevitably occur. He had seen sailing-ships, neglecting ordinary precautions, dismasted and left sheer hulks all within a few minutes. He had also vivid recollections of seeing a large barque taken aback and thrown on her beam ends by a dreaded white squall. In that particular instance his ship—he was Second Officer in her at the time—was within two miles of the barque. Although boats were lowered to go to the rescue of the latter's crew not a trace of either barque or hands remained. Capsized, the luckless craft had sunk like a stone.
When at length the long-expected breeze appeared it came softly. The Golden Vanity's canvas fluttered irresolutely. She heeled, recovered, heeled again and began to forge ahead, without the necessity for trimming sails.
After days of inactivity the helm once more began to "kick". The bored helmsman, lubricating his hands, prepared to enjoy himself, while the welcome ripple under the ship's cutwater and a steadily lengthening wake announced that for the present the period of inaction was at an end.
By midnight, when Geoff had to "stand his trick" the ship was logging eight knots. Peter Kelso, the officer of the Middle Watch, had just taken over when Geoff reported for duty.