“Ay, ay, sir!”
The hands fended the picket-boat off until the coir fenders were placed in position, with the result that instead of a disconcerting succession of grinding thuds as woodwork banged against woodwork, the fender took practically all the chafe.
“What’s up with the fellow we saw on board?” inquired Kenneth.
Wilson, putting on his sea-boots once more, spat contemptuously over the side.
“Measly rat! He’d have let us drift past without raising a finger to bear a hand. Maybe he’s scared stiff—thinks we’re ghosts doing a little round o’ visits at Christmas! Suppose I nip on board and see what’s doing, sir?”
“Carry on, then,” agreed the midshipman. “Mind you don’t get a crack over the head from a scared-stiff ship-keeper.”
“Trust me to look after myself, sir,” rejoined Wilson confidently.
The other craft turned out to be a schooner with old-fashioned chain plates and projecting platforms fitted with dead eyes to which the shrouds were secured. Her bulwarks were from six to ten feet above the picket-boat’s deck—according to the relative roll of both craft—but the chain plate was well within the coxswain’s reach.
Waiting his opportunity, Wilson gripped the lanyards of one pair of dead-eyes and swung himself up. His feet slithered upon the accumulation of frozen snow that had lodged upon the chain plate, but his grasp was a powerful one.
Recovering his foothold he scrambled over the bulwarks and disappeared from the midshipman’s sight.
In a few seconds he reappeared.
“Chuck me up the spare painter, Nobbie!” he hailed, addressing the bowman. “There ain’t no one on deck, so I’ll take the liberty of making all fast myself!”
As soon as the second painter was secured the coxswain picked up a coil of rope that was lying on the schooner’s deck and dropped one end into the picket-boat’s stern-sheets.
“That’ll do for a sternfast, sir!” he explained. “With the helm as it is she’ll take a sheer and lie quietly. I’ll be back in a brace of shakes.”
But it was a long “brace of shakes”.
Kenneth shivering in the biting wind, for the hull of the schooner offered little or no protection from the keen blast, began to grow anxious concerning the absent coxswain. There seemed something decidedly uncanny about the schooner—moored in a practically unknown anchorage and showing no riding lights. There was, of course, nothing unusual about having a man on deck. Apparently he was keeping anchor watch; but what was unusual was the fact that he had declined to secure the picket-boat’s rope and after looking over the side for a short while had disappeared from sight. If he had gone to rouse the master and the rest of the crew they would have turned out long before this.
And what had happened to Wilson? Had he been attacked by the fellow they had just seen? It was quite possible that the man might have had a fright and have hit the coxswain over the head with a belaying pin the moment he gained the deck of the schooner. Or Wilson might have slipped on the snow-covered deck and pitched head foremost down an open hatchway.
Where was the ship-keeper? If he had deserted the ship, by what means had he left her? Hardly by swimming, since the low temperature was sufficient to benumb the strongest man in a few minutes.
And what was the schooner doing there, riding to a single anchor and without displaying a light of any description? The whole business looked decidedly fishy, but for the present Raxworthy was content to take what the gods offered. Here was a temporary shelter from the winter’s gale. Even under the bleakest conditions it was preferable to lie alongside the mysterious vessel rather than to face death in the aimlessly drifting picket-boat.
Nevertheless, Kenneth’s anxiety on the score of his absent coxswain increased as time wore on. He was debating with himself whether he should send someone in search of him when Wilson’s sou’wester-crowned face appeared over the bulwark.
“Crickey, sir!” exclaimed the coxswain. “If this ain’t a rum go! Can you come on board, sir, and see for yourself.”
For a moment Midshipman Raxworthy hesitated—not that he was afraid to board the sombre, mysterious craft, but because it meant leaving the picket-boat of which he was in command and consequently responsible for its safety.
Apparently Wilson noticed his superior officer’s hesitation.
“She’ll be all right, sir,” he declared. “Both painters properly secured and the sternfast as well. Since we’ve to make a night of it maybe you’ll order the hands on board too. It’s a jolly sight more comfortable than being frozen stiff in our hooker!”
Kenneth looked at the coxswain in astonishment. What did he mean by declaring that the apparently abandoned schooner was better than the picket-boat?
“Right-o!” he rejoined, “I’ll come aboard.”
“Hang on a minute, sir!” cautioned Wilson. “The deck’s as slippery as a skating-rink. Wait till I drop a Jacob’s ladder over the side.”
A moment later and a wire rope ladder with wooden rungs was lowered from the schooner’s bulwarks.
Cautiously the midshipman made his way up and gained the deck.
“Here we are, sir!” was the coxswain’s greeting. “A nice little home from home!”
At first glance there was nothing to bear out Wilson’s statement.
The schooner was flush decked except for a cargo hatch extending between fore and mainmasts. Over the hatch was a tarpaulin, one end of which was turned back. Right for’ard was a large windlass; immediately abaft it the hatchway giving access to the fo’c’sle. This was secured by a padlock. Right aft was a raised structure giving protection to the helmsman. In front of it was the companion leading to the skipper’s cabin, while between it and the mainmast was a small skylight which was also partly covered by a tarpaulin. Through the portion of the glass laid bare by the folded canvas came a glimmer of yellow light that played upon the main boom and the loosely furled mainsail.
Over everything lay a deep mantle of snow broken by footprints that were not all caused by the sea-boots of the picket-boat’s coxswain. In fact there was a regular lane between the after companion hatchway and the port quarter, while the rail had been newly freed from snow in the vicinity of a pair of empty davits, the lower blocks of the falls beating a hollow tattoo with each roll of the schooner.
“The crew did a bunk, sir, just before I got on board,” explained Wilson. “Must have lowered their boat and got away. Mighty quiet they were over it, too! I never heard a sound!”
“Guilty consciences, Wilson!” declared Kenneth. “Obviously the look-out spotted a naval craft bearing down. He gave the alarm and the crew took to the boat.”
“Don’t see why, sir.”
“Because it’s my belief that we have surprised a smuggling vessel!”
Wilson shook his head.
“It’s not for me to argue with an officer, sir; but respectful-like I beg to differ. Just cast your eye down the hold, sir!”
Kenneth did so.
To his amazement he found that almost the entire space was occupied by a long table covered with a white table-cloth. There were cups, saucers and plates sufficient for twenty or thirty people, a huge iced cake decorated with holly, and several shallow wicker baskets piled high with oranges and other fruits. Except for a solitary hurricane lamp the hold was unlighted, but there were about a dozen unlighted ones each festooned with evergreens. Signal flags covered the bulkheads, while traced in somewhat straggling letters was the greeting: A MERRY CHRISTMASS TO——
The artist’s handiwork had probably been interrupted by the arrival of the picket-boat.