“They’re in our whaler,” interrupted the Lieutenant-commander, pointing to the boat, now only a quarter of a mile away, for her recall had been hoisted and Raxworthy was urging his crew to “give way and pull like blue blazes”.
The skipper of the Supreme was overjoyed.
“We’ll be all shipshape and Bristol-fashion in a brace of shakes,” he declared; “and if you fall in with a yellow junk with a broad green band and her eyes ringed with red, just please give her my compliments and anything you like to make the blighters sit up. I reckon she carries eighty well-armed cut-throats, and they are as artful as a wagon-load of monkeys.”
“Thanks, a nod is as good as a wink,” rejoined Maynebrace. “A most useful tip of yours, Captain. We’re going to look for her at once.”
The whaler returned to the destroyer and was hoisted in. Raxworthy made his report and handed over the two men he had saved. They were taken below to the wardroom, given a glass of sherry apiece, and then returned to their ship.
A quarter of an hour later, sufficient steam having again been raised to get the engines going, the Supreme stood off on a nor’-nor’-easterly course and Buster nosed off in the opposite direction to see if her luck was again in.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if that junk is the one that sunk the one that captured the Ah-Foo, sir,” observed Raxworthy.
“You don’t know; you told me you never had a glimpse of her,” rejoined Maynebrace. “All the same, I hope you’re right.”
They cruised inshore, but just outside territorial waters for the rest of the day and through the ensuing night. When the brief tropic dawn broke, a sail was sighted away to the east’ard—or rather the three mat square sails of a large junk.
Buster closed to within a mile. She was certainly a yellow-hulled craft, but without the broad green stripe. Sure enough, however, the “eyes”, without which no Chinese junk would venture out to sea, were surrounded by vermilion rings.
“I’ve been out Chinaside for two commissions and have never before seen a red-eyed junk,” commented Maynebrace. “She may have painted out the green band. Eighty cut-throats and machine-guns aboard. Regular floating hornets’ nest!”
The junk sailed serenely on. A few men were on deck, and they appeared to evince no interest in the inquisitive destroyer.
Buster fired a blank charge and hoisted an International signal ordering her to heave-to.
The junk was in no hurry to reply. Maynebrace gave them time, and visualized the crafty pirates poring over the signal book.
When she did reply she hoisted a yellow flag over one with two yellow and two black squares.
“QL, sir,” reported the yeoman of signals. “Reports she’s infected.”
“Does she?” remarked Maynebrace drily. “We’ll prescribe for her; give her something to rid her of plague! She’ll have to show her tongue first, though!”
Buster altered course and closed her distance. When still a good half mile away the pirates could no longer resist the inclination to display their war-like character.
A fierce burst of machine-gun fire was directed against the destroyer. It plastered the gun-shields of the for’ard quick-firer, and would have struck down any of the crew who had incautiously remained in view. A few feet higher, and the traversing hail of bullets would have swept the bridge.
Maynebrace was no longer in doubt. He was loath to employ high explosive shells; not that he had any wish to spare the pirates, but because he wanted the junk badly!
He ordered the Lewis-guns to open fire in order to beat down the hail of hostile bullets, and then shouted through the voice-tube for the bow gun to try two rounds of gas shells.
Both projectiles got home, the actual impact making two jagged holes in the junk’s upper-works; but the liberation of the gas did the trick very neatly.
The gas used in the British Navy, differs considerably from that employed by the enemy with such hideous results during the Great War. Even the shells do not explode and send fragments of metal hurtling in all directions with terrific force. Unless a man is in the direct path of the projectile he is unharmed by it. The gas, when liberated on this occasion, expanded, but rose only a few feet above the source of liberation. Being heavier than air it found its way down ‘tween decks, its effect upon living creatures being to render them unconscious within a few seconds. The period of insensibility varies from about five minutes to three hours, and on recovery the victim feels no ill-effect, beyond a headache.
The machine-gun fire from the junk wavered and then ceased.
The destroyer’s officers, who had providentially escaped the hail of bullets, waited developments, scanning the junk through their binoculars.
Raxworthy tried to follow their example, but found his hands shaking so much that he could not steady his glasses. He had had his wish and had been under fire. He was hardly conscious of it at the time, but now that the ordeal was over it left him shaking and trying his level best to hide the fact.
Lieutenant Yardley, however, noticed the midshipman’s knees shaking.
“Pull yourself together, Raxworthy,” he said quietly. “Most of us are like that for the first time under fire. It’s soon over.”
“I’m not a funk, sir,” protested the midshipman.
“ ‘Course not; only the excitement gets into your limbs. Nip aft and see if any of the boats have been hit. We’ll be wanting them very soon.”
Raxworthy descended the bridge-ladder. By the time he reached the upper deck his knees were no longer shaking.
There were several neatly drilled bullet holes in the two whalers, but the hands were already busy at plugging them. The lieutenant had dispatched Raxworthy on an unnecessary errand, but that had not been his intention. It had given the latter the chance to obtain a grip on himself. It had worked. Raxworthy was now calm and self-possessed. His baptism of fire was over.
“Away boats’ crews! Man and out boats!”
The order brought Raxworthy up all standing. He wanted to be one of the boarding party, and wondered whether he ought. The lieutenant-commander had sent him in charge of the whaler during the pursuit of the Supreme. Did that order still hold good?
Sub-lieutenant Cartwright hurried past him.
“You’re taking the second whaler, Rax!” sung out the sub over his shoulder. “Better bring a broom with you to sweep the flies into the dust-pan.”
The significance of Cartwright’s remark was lost for the present. It would be plain later. Raxworthy, his doubts removed by Cartwright’s implied order, soon found himself in the stern-sheets of the whaler and urging his crew to “give way”.
It was a procession of boats. Lieutenant Cotterdell, being in command of the boarding parties, led the way, followed by Cartwright in the first whaler, and Raxworthy in the tail of the procession.
Had the boats been under fire they would have suffered heavily through being in line ahead, but the pirates were no longer in a position to offer resistance, so Cotterdell could afford to let his men row easily and thus leave them comparatively fresh when it came to swarming up the lofty sides of the yellow junk.
They boarded—Cotterdell and Cartwright’s boats running alongside to port, while Raxworthy made fast amidships on the starboard side.
A strange sight met the midshipman’s gaze as he clambered over the wide bulwark. He understood now the sub’s reference to flies. The pirates were lying about on deck in all sorts of curious attitudes. One man, for instance, was holding his rifle with the butt against his shoulder and his wide open right eye glancing along the sights. He had toppled sideways, his hands rigidly gripping the still loaded weapon.