“If there’s a stink about sneaking their grub I suppose they’ll let me pay for it,” was Kenneth’s sop to his conscience. “As for the kids’ treat, I don’t suppose the Frenchmen will mind.”
Meanwhile Leading Stoker Brown, having got the motor running satisfactorily, turned his attention to the jammed steering-gear.
Presently he came aboard the schooner, and went below to where his superior officer was tending the galley fire.
“Beg pardon, sir, but I’ve found out what’s wrong with that there gear.”
“You have?”
“Yes, sir; one of the links of the rudder chains has parted close to the quarter-block. You can turn the wheel a dozen times without anything going wrong; but when the link lies a certain way, the fractured part acts as a sort of pawl and jams hard against the shell of the block. I’ll just cut out the defective link, and fit a shackle. Then, if the head of the pin’s cut off the chain’ll render perfectly.”
“In that case there’s no reason why we shouldn’t take the schooner in tow and make for the ship,” observed Raxworthy.
“Certainly, sir!” replied the leading stoker imperturbably. “Fog’s lifting some, and we can see a good hundred yards ahead.”
“I’m not going to shift before two bells in the second dog watch” (5 p.m.), decided the midshipman. “So you’d better knock off what you’re doing and get cleaned. I want you to take the part of Father Christmas. Understand—repairs cannot possibly be executed before the time I have mentioned.”
A knowing smile spread over the usually impassive features of the leading stoker. He even went to the extent of winking at his superior officer.
“Right, sir, I tumble to it,” he rejoined. “Replacing that defective link won’t be possible afore one bell!”
It was a neat little bit of deception, but Kenneth, in the knowledge that the commander would have to admit the injustice of the punishment he had awarded, was determined to carry out his programme and give the fisherfolks’ children their Christmas treat.
Brown went off to deck himself up in the rôle chosen by the midshipman. There was plenty of oakum in the picket-boat’s engine-room. Out of that he fashioned beard, moustache and eyebrows of a prodigious and fearsome character. Red bunting from some old signal flags he fashioned into a robe, with white collar and cuffs cut from the French captain’s table napery. His red, pointed cap was adorned with holly, while his feet were encased in sea-boots splattered with mica—shamelessly obtained from some spare sparking plugs—to give the effect of snow crystals.
“Gracious, Brown!” ejaculated Raxworthy, when he saw this scarlet apparition framed in the doorway of the lobby. “You mustn’t look so glum! You’ll frighten the kids.”
“Can’t ‘elp it, sir,” replied the leading stoker mournfully. “I was born glum—so me old mother says. I’m doing me best—actin’ under orders so to speak, but me face is me own.”
“Well, try and think it’s someone else’s—just for once,” suggested the midshipman.
“I’ll try, sir,” agreed the man lugubriously. “But don’t count too much on it, sir!”
In a locker in the captain’s cabin, Wilson discovered a gramophone and a number of records, while an examination of the mate’s quarters resulted in finding a somewhat battered accordion.
“We’ll have a bit o’ music, sir,” declared the coxswain, who was entering into the spirit of the thing with enormous enthusiasm. “Nothin’ like a spot o’ music to liven things up like. I was reckoned a bit of a specialist with the accordion once, sir,” he added modestly. “Maybe I can twiddle the ivories and make the old thing speak yet!”
With that he raised the instrument at arm’s length above his head and prepared to crash into melody—or discord.
But neither was forthcoming. Once extended the accordion refused to close.
“ ‘Ere! this isn’t the First of April—it’s Christmas Day!” exclaimed the coxswain, addressing the soundless instrument. “Come now, don’t be narky. Let’s see what a little gentle persuasion will do!”
Using considerable force, Wilson attempted to compress the instrument. As he did so the bellows burst, emitting a white powder that gave him the appearance of a pierrot.
Kenneth exploded with laughter, but almost immediately he grew grave.
“Shove your head in a bucket of water as sharp as you can, Wilson!” he said.
The coxswain, alarmed by the midshipman’s insistence, promptly did so.
“What is the stuff, sir?” he inquired, as he dried his face, “corrosive powder?”
“Almost as bad,” replied Kenneth. “I believe it’s cocaine, although I’ve never seen the stuff before. If it is, then it’s enough to get those Frenchmen twelve months’ hard labour. We’ll keep the accordion and some of the stuff as evidence. Heave the rest overboard.”
Wilson carefully swept up the minute white crystals from the deck and consigned them to a watery grave. Barely had he completed this task when he sung out:
“Boat with the kiddies coming alongside, sir!”
Kenneth hurried on deck to find that there were two boats approaching from the still invisible shore.
Each had its quota of gleefully shouting children, while in addition—the midshipman’s invitation having been taken literally—there was a swarm of adults both men and women. Anxiously he scanned the boats to see if the French captain and his men were amongst the party. He was not at all keen to receive them, especially as they might attempt to recapture their schooner. It might be all very well to bluff them into thinking that the picket-boat’s crew were armed, and especially detailed to put the Marie Lescaut under arrest; but on the other hand the Frenchmen, who probably were quite capable of taking in any details concerning the disabled boat and her meagre crew, would be tempted to show fight.
But the midshipman’s fears were groundless. The adult male contingent consisted of six fishermen ranging in age between twenty and eighty who, in spite of the knowledge that the seizure of the schooner meant a severe blow to their livelihood, were determined to enjoy themselves for the sake of the “bairns”.
“ ‘Ere we are, sir!” announced the man to whom the invitation had been given. “We sure wishes you all a Merry Christmas!”
“Come aboard!” rejoined Kenneth.
Wilson and the bowman standing at the gang-way—a gap made by the removal of a small portable section of the bulwarks—hauled the children and women up. The men followed and, tongue-tied, leant awkwardly against the rail, shuffling their sea-booted feet in obvious shyness.
“Get the children below, Wilson,” suggested Kenneth. “It’s cold for them on deck. We may as well start grub straight away!”
The first child to descend the ladder was a pretty flaxen-haired girl of about five, who gave a shrill cry of delight as she caught sight of the decorated main hold.
But the next moment she emitted a shriek of terror, and threw her arms round Wilson’s neck in a paroxysm of sheer fright.
The effect upon the rest was almost disastrous. The kiddies on deck stampeded; the elders not knowing what was amiss, either tried to pacify them or turned angrily upon the midshipman as the author of some piece of unwarranted treachery!
Above the tumult Leading Stoker Brown’s deep bass voice:
“I told you, sir! I knew I wasn’t cut out for the part. Now I’ve scared the kids properly!”
The midshipman, thanks to his training, knew how to act promptly in a tight corner.
“On deck, Father Christmas!” he ordered. Then, turning to his still agitated guests: “Here’s Father Christmas! He’s going to give you all a little present and to welcome you on board!”