Raxworthy followed the Owner to the upper deck and thence to the bridge, where Lieutenant Yardley and Sub-lieutenant Cartwright were levelling telescopes in the direction of a steamship about three miles off.
There was reasonable cause for their curiosity.
The vessel was steering diagonally towards the shore, where no harbour of commercial importance existed within fifty miles. She had not been challenged, yet she had hoisted the International Code signal “All’s well”—and without displaying her “number” beforehand.
She was flying the Chinese Republican ensign. On her stern was the legend Su-me—London. That, in itself, would not occasion suspicion. Ships originally British owned have frequently been sold abroad, and although their names might be altered, their port of registry remains unchanged.
“What d’ye make of her, Yardley?” demanded Buster’s lieutenant-commander.
“She’s not jonnick,” replied the second in command.
“I’m of that opinion,” agreed Maynebrace.
He then ordered the guns’ crews to close up and prepare to open fire. In addition to the quick-firers, Lewis guns were brought up and stationed at the wings of the bridge. Speed was then increased to thirty knots, which was at least double that of the craft under suspicion.
The Su-me then hoisted a three-flag signaclass="underline" “Unless your communication is of great importance I beg to be excused,” and altered her course more to the west’ard.
“It’s important enough, John Chinaman,” said Maynebrace, with a cheerful grin. “Wheel fifteen degrees to port, quartermaster!”
The change of helm resulted in bringing Buster on a parallel course, and inside that of the suspect. It was Maynebrace’s intention to cut in between her and the shore and then, if she refused to stop, to fire a plugged shell across her bows.
“Look, sir!” exclaimed Raxworthy, lowering his binoculars and pointing at the fugitive. “They’re throwing someone into the ditch!”
Quickly the lieutenant-commander brought his glasses to bear in the direction the midshipman had pointed out.
He was just in time to see a man in white uniform striking the creamy foam in the Su-me’s wake.
The unfortunate individual hit the water heavily, throwing up a considerable shower of spray. He must have fallen flat, and would in consequence be badly winded.
Then, to the surprise of Buster’s officers and men, who had witnessed what seemed to have been a tragedy, a life-buoy was thrown over the Su-me’s stern by one of a group of Chinese clustered right aft. This done, they dispersed with alacrity, possibly fearing a burst of Lewis-gun and rifle fire from the “foreign devils” in pursuit.
By this time Buster was only about half a mile astern.
Through their powerful telescopes and binoculars, the observers on her bridge watched the efforts of the jettisoned man to make the buoy. He was swimming strongly, so no attempt had been made to secure his arms and legs. And why, having thrown the man overboard, did his assailants go to the length of heaving a life-buoy after him?
Obviously the Chinese didn’t want him to drown. Their object was to make the destroyer stop and pick him up and thus lose valuable time.
Equally obvious was it that Buster would have to pick the man up, whether he were a European or an Asiatic.
He had gained the buoy and was now facing the oncoming destroyer. In spite of his tanned complexion he was certainly a white man.
Maynebrace had already made up his mind what to do. Only as a last resource would he stop and lower a boat. That would waste much valuable time. Nevertheless, the whaler was manned and swung out ready to be lowered and slipped.
“Stand by there with bowlines!” he ordered, and then rang down for quarter speed ahead.
His aim was to pick the swimmer up by means of one of those looped ropes. It was a manœuvre that required skill and an iron nerve. Even at quarter speed the destroyer would be going too fast for the swimmer to retain a hold, and if one of the bowlines chanced to fall over his head the sudden jerk would break his neck. And if they missed the man he would almost certainly be caught by the suction of the starboard propeller and cut to pieces. Yet way must not be entirely taken off the ship. If it were, she would become unmanageable and drift to lee’ard of her objective.
For the present Maynebrace didn’t worry about the Su-me. His whole attention was centred upon the man in the ditch.
One thing in his favour was the fact that the sea was calm. On the other hand a calm sea is favourable to sharks. The surface might be unruffled for hours by the sinister dorsal fin of one of these ravenous brutes; but within a few minutes after they have been provided with a likely victim, the water all around would be ruffled by feathers of spray as the black triangular objects converged upon their prey.
Maynebrace realized this danger, and ordered half a dozen bluejackets possessing first-class marksmen’s badges to stand by, ready to fire should any shark appear.
Three hundred yards . . . two hundred . . . one hundred.
Clang, clang!
The engine-room telegraphs were jerked back to stop. The destroyer quivered. Her bows dropped appreciably.
“Starboard five, quartermaster!”
“Aye, aye, sir; starboard five!”
“Meet her at that, quartermaster!”
“Helm’s amidships, sir!”
“Port! . . . Steady!”
The swimmer’s head was no longer visible from the bridge, owing to the flare of the destroyer’s bows. The hands stationed along the side leant outboard, ready to heave.
“Too much way, sir!” shouted the gunner.
Again the telegraphs clanged: “Quarter speed astern both!” Then “Stop!”
A few seconds later three bluejackets hauling on a bowline, brought the rescued man inboard like a hooked salmon.
Reassured on that score, Maynebrace brought his attention back to the Su-me. That nasty little trick on the part of the gang who had seized her had resulted in a gain of about a mile. It didn’t want a masthead angle with a sextant to tell Maynebrace that.
Again in response to orders from the bridge the destroyer leapt forward, lifting her bows and throwing up a huge bow wave.
At all costs Buster must head off her quarry before she gained the safety of territorial waters; although her lieutenant-commander vowed he’d get her even if she piled herself up on the beach, even if he were “smashed” for it!
Then another white-uniformed man was hurled from the Su-me’s poop; while to act as a human screen against the destroyer’s fire, four more were dragged aft by their yellow captors and lashed to the taffrail.
Maynebrace muttered something under his breath. Here was a disturbing factor in the situation. He’d have to slow down to pick up the second man; he couldn’t cripple the fugitive ship, and she was more than holding her own in the chase.
“Why not lower the whaler, sir,” suggested Cotterdell. “We can pick him up when we’ve scuppered those johnnies.”
The lieutenant-commander was used to making quick decisions and his judgment was rarely at fault. He couldn’t very well send away any of his officers. Each had his duties to perform should the destroyer be in action; but there was the supernumerary, Midshipman Kenneth Raxworthy.
Giving crisp helm orders to the quartermaster, Maynebrace again rang down for reduced speed.
“Mr. Raxworthy!”
“Sir!”
“You will take away the whaler and pick up survivors from yonder vessel. Follow in our wake as well as you can and we’ll return and pick you up as soon as possible.”