The skipper's eye brightened. "Do you mean," he began, "that she is any good?"
"Oh, no," said Mr. Wardrop. "She'll need three thousand pounds in repairs, at the lowest, if she's to take the sea again, an' that apart from any injury to her structure. She's like a man fallen down five pair o' stairs. We can't tell for months what has happened; but we know she'll never be good again without a new inside. Ye should see the condenser–tubes an' the steam connections to the donkey, for two things only. I'm not afraid of them repairin' her. I'm afraid of them stealin' things."
"They've fired on us. They'll have to explain that."
"Our reputation's not good enough to ask for explanations. Let's take what we have and be thankful. Ye would not have consuls remembern' the Guidin' Light, an' the Shah–in–Shah, an' the Aglaia, at this most alarmin' crisis. We've been no better than pirates these ten years. Under Providence we're no worse than thieves now. We've much to be thankful for—if we e'er get back to her."
"Make it your own way, then," said the skipper. "If there's the least chance—"
"I'll leave none," said Mr. Wardrop—"none that they'll dare to take. Keep her heavy on the tow, for we need time."
The skipper never interfered with the affairs of the engine–room, and Mr. Wardrop—an artist in his profession—turned to and composed a work terrible and forbidding. His background was the dark–grained sides of the engine–room; his material the metals of power and strength, helped out with spars, baulks, and ropes. The man–of–war towed sullenly and viciously. The Haliotis behind her hummed like a hive before swarming. With extra and totally unneeded spars her crew blocked up the space round the forward engine till it resembled a statue in its scaffolding, and the butts of the shores interfered with every view that a dispassionate eye might wish to take. And that the dispassionate mind might be swiftly shaken out of its calm, the well–sunk bolts of the shores were wrapped round untidily with loose ends of ropes, giving a studied effect of most dangerous insecurity. Next, Mr. Wardrop took up a collection from the after–engine, which, as you will remember, had not been affected in the general wreck. The cylinder escape–valve he abolished with a flogging–hammer. It is difficult in far–off ports to come by such valves, unless, like Mr. Wardrop, you keep duplicates in store. At the same time men took off the nuts of two of the great holding–down bolts that serve to keep the engines in place on their solid bed. An engine violently arrested in mid–career may easily jerk off the nut of a holding–down bolt, and this accident looked very natural.
Passing along the tunnel, he removed several shaft coupling–bolts and—nuts, scattering other and ancient pieces of iron underfoot. Cylinder–bolts he cut off to the number of six from the after–engine cylinder, so that it might match its neighbour, and stuffed the bilge—and feed–pumps with cotton–waste. Then he made up a neat bundle of the various odds and ends that he had gathered from the engines—little things like nuts and valve–spindles, all carefully tallowed—and retired with them under the floor of the engine–room, where he sighed, being fat, as he passed from manhole to manhole of the double bottom, and in a fairly dry submarine compartment hid them. Any engineer, particularly in an unfriendly port, has a right to keep his spare stores where he chooses; and the foot of one of the cylinder shores blocked all entrance into the regular store–room, even if that had not been already closed with steel wedges. In conclusion, he disconnected the after–engine, laid piston and connecting–rod, carefully tallowed, where it would be most inconvenient to the casual visitor, took out three of the eight collars of the thrust–block, hid them where only he could find them again, filled the boilers by hand, wedged the sliding doors of the coal–bunkers, and rested from his labours. The engine–room was a cemetery, and it did not need the contents of the ash–lift through the skylight to make it any worse.
He invited the skipper to look at the completed work.
"Saw ye ever such a forsaken wreck as that?" said he, proudly. "It almost frights me to go under those shores. Now, what d' you think they'll do to us?"
"Wait till we see," said the skipper. "It'll be bad enough when it comes."
He was not wrong. The pleasant days of towing ended all too soon, though the Haliotis trailed behind her a heavily weighted jib stayed out into the shape of a pocket; and Mr. Wardrop was no longer an artist of imagination, but one of seven–and–twenty prisoners in a prison full of insects. The man–of–war had towed them to the nearest port, not to the headquarters of the colony, and when Mr. Wardrop saw the dismal little harbour, with its ragged line of Chinese junks, its one crazy tug, and the boat–building shed that, under the charge of a philosophical Malay, represented a dockyard, he sighed and shook his head.
"I did well," he said. "This is the habitation o' wreckers an' thieves. We're at the uttermost ends of the earth. Think you they'll ever know in England?"
"Doesn't look like it," said the skipper.
They were marched ashore with what they stood up in, under a generous escort, and were judged according to the customs of the country, which, though excellent, are a little out of date. There were the pearls; there were the poachers; and there sat a small but hot Governor. He consulted for a while, and then things began to move with speed, for he did not wish to keep a hungry crew at large on the beach, and the man–of–war had gone up the coast. With a wave of his hand—a stroke of the pen was not necessary—he consigned them to the black gang–tana, the back–country, and the hand of the Law removed them from his sight and the knowledge of men. They were marched into the palms, and the back–country swallowed them up—all the crew of the Haliotis.
Deep peace continued to brood over Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Australasia, and Polynesia.
It was the firing that did it. They should have kept their counsel; but when a few thousand foreigners are bursting with joy over the fact that a ship under the British flag has been fired at on the high seas, news travels quickly; and when it came out that the pearl–stealing crew had not been allowed access to their consul (there was no consul within a few hundred miles of that lonely port) even the friendliest of Powers has a right to ask questions. The great heart of the British public was beating furiously on account of the performance of a notorious race–horse, and had not a throb to waste on distant accidents; but somewhere deep in the hull of the ship of State there is machinery which more or less accurately takes charge of foreign affairs. That machinery began to revolve, and who so shocked and surprised as the Power that had captured the Haliotis? It explained that colonial governors and far–away men–of–war were difficult to control, and promised that it would most certainly make an example both of the Governor and the vessel. As for the crew reported to be pressed into military service in tropical climes, it would produce them as soon as possible, and it would apologise, if necessary. Now, no apologies were needed. When one nation apologises to another, millions of amateurs who have no earthly concern with the difficulty hurl themselves into the strife and embarrass the trained specialist. It was requested that the crew be found, if they were still alive—they had been eight months beyond knowledge—and it was promised that all would be forgotten.
The little Governor of the little port was pleased with himself. Seven–and–twenty white men made a very compact force to throw away on a war that had neither beginning nor end—a jungle and stockade fight that flickered and smouldered through the wet hot years in the hills a hundred miles away, and was the heritage of every wearied official. He had, he thought, deserved well of his country; and if only some one would buy the unhappy Haliotis, moored in the harbour below his verandah, his cup would be full. He looked at the neatly silvered lamps that he had taken from her cabins, and thought of much that might be turned to account. But his countrymen in that moist climate had no spirit. They would peep into the silent engine–room, and shake their heads. Even the men–of–war would not tow her further up the coast, where the Governor believed that she could be repaired. She was a bad bargain; but her cabin carpets were undeniably beautiful, and his wife approved of her mirrors.