The table was certainly of a temporary nature and laid without regard to the possibility of the schooner rolling in bad weather. There were no fiddles to keep the plates, cups and saucers from sliding to the deck, while no attempt had been made to secure the pyramids of fruit from a similar fate. A feast was apparently to be held there in the day—it was now four o’clock in the morning—but for whom? The schooner’s crew was not likely to exceed seven or eight; where were the remainder of the feasters coming from? Almost certainly from one of the inhabited islands comprising the Mutches. Why, then, did the schooner’s crew, making preparations for a Christmas Day treat to the fisherfolk of the island, suddenly desert their vessel with every indication of panic?
The coxswain, on being asked for his explanation, fell back upon his previous theory.
“They thought we were ghosts, sir; and cleared off as fast as they knew how.”
“Perhaps they are still on board—or, at least, some of them,” suggested Kenneth.
“They can’t have made a bolt for the forepeak and put a padlock on outside after they were in,” said Wilson. “May be there is someone aft. I just glanced through the skylight but didn’t take particular notice.”
“We’ll see,” decided the midshipman.
He was the first to descend the steep wooden ladder aft. A waft of warm air mingled with the odour of roasting meat greeted him. Compared with the bitter wind without and the gnawing pangs of hunger of which he was beginning to be acutely conscious, this silent greeting from the skipper’s quarters was particularly welcome.
There was a bulkhead lamp burning in the lobby at the foot of the ladder. To starboard was the galley with an anthracite stove burning. On it were three saucepans simmering gently and prevented from sliding off by a low railing. In the oven was a large piece of beef which was showing indications of being overdone.
“That’ll be good grub wasted if it stops there,” remarked Wilson. He found a cloth and smartly removed the baking dish from the oven.
“Smells good, by Jove!” exclaimed Kenneth.
“And we’re hungry,” added the coxswain tentatively. “The whole crowd of us, sir!”
“Let’s examine the cabin first,” suggested the midshipman.
There were two cabins aft, one belonging to the skipper and the other to the mate.
In the former a swing table was laid ready for a meal. The captain was apparently more fastidious than the average master of a coasting vessel, for there was a clean linen cloth on the table and the knives and forks—set for two—were brightly polished. In a rack within hand’s reach were a number of uncorked wine bottles.
On either side of the cabin stove—which like that of the galley had recently been made up and was burning cheerfully—were bookcases. With one exception all the volumes were French. The charts in the rack, too, were mainly French, although there was a British “blue back” of Junk Harbour with hand-inserted additions.
Although he made a perfunctory search for the ship’s papers, Kenneth failed to find them; but he obtained sufficient evidence to show that the schooner was the Marie Lescaut of Fécamp.
The midshipman summed up the situation. He was aware that a French or a Belgian sailing craft was known to be engaged in smuggling in the vicinity of Mautby Harbour. The fishing protection cruiser Gannet had been on the look-out for her in vain, and now the Kirkham was temporarily taking over the Gannet’s duty. Had it not been for the foreign smuggling craft he, Kenneth, would not have had his Christmas leave jammed. Indirectly that vessel was the cause of the commander’s displeasure.
But so far there was no evidence that the Marie Lescaut was a smuggler. True there was no reason why she should be sheltering in a remote and almost unknown haven in the Mutches. Having landed her contraband cargo—if she had brought one—she would probably have made for the open sea without delay. Why then did she remain and prepare a feast for a score or more? The guests were to be English, as the ill-spelt greeting on the bulkhead indicated. But why, unless they were possessed of guilty consciences, did the Frenchmen abandon their ship?
“Dashed if I’d clear off and leave my grub, sir,” remarked the coxswain, reading the midshipman’s thoughts. “I think I’d be tempted to plug a fellow who came between me and my victuals. Think they’ll be coming back, sir?”
“How do I know?” rejoined Kenneth. “At any rate we’re in possession of an abandoned ship. She’s anchored: that may make a difference, but she wasn’t showing a riding light, so we can take possession of her as a danger to navigation. Not that there’s much chance of any vessel barging along where we are. Pass the word for all hands to come on board for a hot breakfast!”
“But one of us ought to be on deck, just in case,” observed Wilson.
“Exactly,” agreed Midshipman Raxworthy. “I’m keeping watch while the hands feed. After that I’ll tuck in.”
For the next three-quarters of an hour Kenneth kept his self-imposed vigil on the bleak deck of the Marie Lescaut. It was essential that a look-out should be kept. Although he was cold and hungry his crew were hungrier, and in the navy it is an unwritten code of honour that an officer should see that his men are fed before he has his meal.
The deck was almost too slippery to walk upon. Snow was still falling steadily, although the wind had piped down considerably. It was darker than ever. Although, according to a hasty examination of the chart, Kenneth knew that the schooner was within a cable’s length of land, there was no indication by sight or sound of any other human beings besides the crew of the picket-boat.
Yet caution was essential. If the Frenchmen were smugglers and the inhabitants of the fishing hamlet were in sympathy with them—a probability since the latter derived considerable benefit by their share in dealing with contraband goods—there was the danger of an attempt to recapture the schooner. Provided the odds are in their favour, foreign smugglers often do not hesitate to resort to violence in order to avoid capture, since capture means a heavy fine, the chance of imprisonment and the certainty of having their vessel confiscated.
But nothing untoward happened to break the monotony of the midshipman’s watch. Only the whining of the wind, the rasping of the chain as the Marie Lescaut overran her cable, and the dull grinding of the fenders between the schooner and the picket-boat could be heard from without, although from below decks came sounds of revelry from the latter’s crew.
Presently the coxswain came on deck.
“We’ve cleared away and made all shipshape for you, sir,” he reported. “Your grub’s being hotted-up, sir. I’ll take over now. Jimmy’s going with Brown to see if they can lay their hands on that jet. If they’re lucky, Brown reckons to get the motor running before very long.”
Kenneth went below and made up for the delay by tucking in to an appetizing repast. Certainly the Frenchmen knew how to cook, and even if the unusual breakfast had suffered somewhat in the process of “hotting-up”, it was none the less welcome.
What with the effect of a plentiful meal and the warmth of the cabin, the midshipman dropped off into a comfortable sleep.
He awoke to find Wilson touching his shoulder.
“Daybreak, sir, and a Merry Christmas! Brown’s found the jet and strained off the juice. There wasn’t half a lot of water in that paraffin!”
“That’s good,” rejoined Kenneth. “But it’s not much use getting the motor to run if our steering-gear’s still jammed. What’s it like outside?”
“I’ll overhaul the steering-gear when it’s a bit lighter, sir,” replied Wilson. “It’s stopped snowing, sir, but there’s a thick fog. You can hardly see the schooner’s bowsprit-end from the eyes of her. I reckon we’d best hang on where we are until it lifts. We aren’t likely to die of starvation,” he added with a laugh.