A Chinese Command.

by Harry Collingwood.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE OUTCAST.

A furious gust of wind tore down the chimney, blowing the smoke out into the small but cosily-furnished sitting-room of the little cottage at Kingston-on-Thames, and sending a shower of sparks hissing and spluttering on to the hearth-rug, where they were promptly trodden out by a tall, fair-haired young giant, who lazily removed his feet from a chair on which they reposed, for the purpose.

This operation concluded, he replaced his feet on the chair with deliberation, re-arranged a cushion behind his head, leaned back luxuriously, and started hunting in his pocket for matches wherewith to light his pipe, which had gone out.

"Beastly night for a dog to be out, much more a human being," he soliloquised. "Poor old Murray's sure to be drenched when he gets back, as well as frozen to the bone. Let's see--is everything ready for him?

Yes, there are his slippers warming before the fire--hope none of those sparks burnt a hole in 'em--likewise dry coat, shirt, and trousers; that ought to do him all right. I hope to goodness the poor old chap's got some encouragement to-day, if nothing else, for he's fearfully down on his luck, and no mistake. And, between me and those fire-irons there, I'm getting almost afraid to let him out of my sight, for fear he'll go and do something foolish--though, to be sure, he's hardly that kind of fellow, when one comes to think of it. However, he should be in very soon now, and then I, shall learn the news."

Having delivered himself of this monologue, d.i.c.k Penryn lit his pipe, took up the book he had been reading, and was soon deep in the pages of Theophile Gautier's _Voyage en l'Orient_.

d.i.c.k Penryn and Murray Frobisher, the friend to whom he had been alluding, were chums of many years' standing. They had been born within a few months of one another--Frobisher being slightly the elder--in the same Devon village; had attended the same school in Plymouth--Mannamead House, to be exact; had gone to the same college together, and had pa.s.sed into the British Navy within a year of one another--Frobisher being again first in the race.

Then, for some years, fortune smiled upon both. Each won golden opinions from his superiors; and by the time that the lads were twenty-three years of age they had attained the rank of lieutenant, and showed signs of rising rapidly in the service.

Everything was going splendidly, and both d.i.c.k and Murray were enjoying temporary rank as commanders of torpedo-boats during the winter manoeuvres of 1891-92, when suddenly, without any warning, Fate turned her face away from one of the chums and plunged him from the pinnacle of light-hearted happiness to the depths of misery and despair.

One evening, while a portion of the defending fleet was lying in Portland Roads waiting to be joined by the other division, news was brought in by one of the scouting destroyers that the attacking fleet had been seen at the entrance to the Channel, steering a course which undoubtedly had Portland as its objective. If that naval base was to be "saved", it was urgently necessary to send eastward in haste to Portsmouth, to bring up the other half of the defending squadron; otherwise the attackers would have things all their own way, and the south-west coast of England would lie at the mercy of the "enemy."

The destroyer _Spitfire_, which had just brought the news, would naturally have been selected to carry the message under ordinary circ.u.mstances--one of the rules of the game being that the telegraph might not be used by either side; but unfortunately, while still a considerable distance from Portland, she had commenced to run short of coal, being obliged to steam at half-speed for a number of hours, and finally arrived in the harbour on the sweepings of her bunkers. Hence there was greater need for haste than ever; and, as it would have taken longer to re-bunker the _Spitfire_ than for T.B. 42, Murray's ship, to raise steam, the young commander was sent for in hot haste by his admiral, hurriedly given his instructions, and told to raise steam and make for Portsmouth with the news in "something less than a pig's whisper."

Delighted at receiving this important commission, Murray Frobisher had hurried back to his little ship, helped the astonished stokers with his own hands to raise steam, and at midnight on a dark, bl.u.s.tering night, with half a gale blowing from the south-east, the sea running steeply, and a heavy driving rain lashing right in their faces, he and his little crew cleared from Portland Roads, dashed across Weymouth Bay at a reckless speed--considering the height of the sea--and doubled Saint Alban's Head.

Murray found that the storm in the bay was a mere trifle compared with that which he was now facing; so, for safety's sake, and to avoid being blown ash.o.r.e, he was compelled to stand off the coast a good deal farther than he had originally intended. He knew that he was in a position of some danger, and, besides being himself additionally on the alert, he posted an extra look-out, with orders to keep his eyes wide open for the first signs of light or loom of moving ship upon that black, rushing waste of water.

T.B. 42 was behaving splendidly, and Murray was just congratulating himself that, in spite of the violence of the wind, his little craft was fighting her way to her destination at a good honest twelve knots an hour, when, with a shriek like that of a thousand warlocks, the wind and sleet whirled down in a burst of vicious fury that struck the boat like a solid wall, rendering it a matter of physical impossibility for any human being to face it until after its first violence was exhausted.

It was during those few fateful moments that the catastrophe occurred.

As the gust veered away astern, and the breathless, half-frozen seamen on deck were again able to direct their eyes ahead, there came a wild cry from the look-out forward of: "Port your helm, sir; port your helm!"

followed, before Murray could spring to the a.s.sistance of the quartermaster at the wheel, by a splintering crash, the rending sound of steel rasping through steel. Then the little craft heeled over to starboard, until Murray felt himself sliding bodily down the steeply inclined deck towards the sea; while above, right over his head, as it seemed, he could dimly perceive the outline of a great, towering metal stem that still surged and sawed onward and over Number 42, relentless as fate itself.

A second later, and the catastrophe was complete. The colliding steamer lifted with the 'scend of the waves and crashed down yet again upon the hapless torpedo-boat, and young Frobisher found himself in the raging sea, clinging instinctively to something--he knew not what--that had come away in his hands as he flung them out wildly to prevent himself from sliding off the deck. As his head appeared above the brine after the plunge, he heard certain dreadful cries which he never forgot as long as he lived. They were the death shrieks of his unhappy crew, imprisoned below among the bursting steam-pipes and boilers, the cascade of white-hot coals from the furnaces, and the crumpling wreckage of machinery and torn plates; and he knew that his trim little ship and his gallant comrades were gone from him for ever.

As it happened, those on the look-out on board the liner, with the storm behind them and their eyes consequently clear, had seen the boat at the instant when the collision had become inevitable; and the captain had promptly rung his engines astern, brought his ship to a standstill, and lowered his boats in an endeavour to rescue the survivors. But the only person rescued was the unfortunate Murray himself, and even he was hauled on board more dead than alive, grieving that it had not been his lot to share the fate of his crew.

Upon his recovery he was called upon to face a court martial for the loss of his ship; and--strange were the ways of the Judge-Advocate--was dismissed that Service which, confronted by a less-harsh officer, he might have remained to honour. And since that miserable moment the unhappy man had been living upon his slender savings, endeavouring meanwhile to obtain employment of any sort that would keep the wolf from the door.

At the moment when this story opens, Murray Frobisher was down to his last few sovereigns, and had therefore been unfeignedly glad to accept the invitation of kind-hearted d.i.c.k Penryn, his former comrade-in-arms, to share the cottage at Kingston where, having no ties of any kind, that young gentleman was staying during his spell of sh.o.r.e leave. And it was Murray whom Penryn was momentarily expecting on this stormy, cold, and dismal evening in March, 1893, just a year after the catastrophe in the Channel which had ruined his career in the British Navy, and all but broken his heart.

d.i.c.k Penryn had scarcely finished another page of his very fascinating book when he heard the front door of the cottage open. A furious gust of wind tore through the little house for a moment, causing even the occupant of the easy chair to shiver in sympathy with his friend; and then the door was shut with a slam, and he heard Murray Frobisher's well-known footsteps ascending the stairs. But there was not the former light-hearted spring in them. Murray was coming upstairs slowly and heavily, like a man carrying a ponderous burden, and d.i.c.k heaved a sharp sigh as he murmured to himself, "No luck again to-day, evidently; else _we_ should have had Murray coming up here full steam ahead. Poor old boy! I wonder what on earth will happen to him if he doesn't get a berth soon? A man can't go on like this for ever without losing heart; and there are already signs that the boy is beginning to lose hope. I wish to Heaven there was something I could do for him; but unfortunately I have not a particle of influence; I am absolutely powerless."

At this moment the door of the little room opened, and Murray stood framed in the opening, looking at his friend with an expression in which weariness, disappointment, and a certain suggestion of relief were curiously blended. If d.i.c.k Penryn was what some people were in the habit of calling a giant, then Murray Frobisher could only be considered gigantic. Standing fully six feet four inches in his boots, broad in proportion, weighing fully sixteen stone, with dark, olive complexion bronzed almost to the shade of an Arab's by exposure to the weather, and with clean-shaven cheeks and lips, and close-cropped, wavy black hair, the man was a truly magnificent specimen of humanity, compelling the attention of all with whom he came in contact.

"So you're back at last, Murray," shouted Penryn, leaping out of his chair, and speaking more cheerfully than he felt that the occasion warranted. "Come inside, man; come inside! Don't stand there in the doorway letting in all the draught; goodness knows it's cold enough without that!" And as Murray closed the door behind him, and slowly pulled forward a chair to the fire, he proceeded: "And what's the news to-day, old man? Any luck of any sort; or has it been the usual style of things--offer your services and have them declined with, or without, thanks?"

"Well," answered Murray in his deep ba.s.s tones, stretching out his half-frozen hands to the blaze, "I hardly know what to think about to-day. It certainly has been a little different from the usual run of things, but not very much. During the whole of the morning, and for the better part of the afternoon, luck was dead against me, as usual. Then, about four o'clock, there came just one little ray of light to brighten the darkness."

"Capital!" broke in d.i.c.k, cheerfully. "Every little helps, you know.

Straws show which way the wind blows, and all the rest of it. Tell us about this ray of light of yours."

"Well," answered Frobisher, with a wry smile, "I don't know that it was very much of a ray, after all; but I'll tell you what happened. I had been running up and down office stairs from before nine o'clock until about three in the afternoon, without result, and I became heartily sick of it; and just by way of a change, I made up my mind to take a run down to the docks and see whether there was anything doing there.

"I got down at about three-thirty, and, feeling pretty hungry--for I had had nothing to eat since breakfast--I went into a small place within hail of the dock gates, and asked for some bread and cheese and beer.

The landlady, a kindly old soul, seeing, I suppose, that I looked cold, and as though I could do with a rest, showed me into a little sanctum labelled _Captains' Room_, where, I was glad to see, there blazed a fine big fire, before which stood two or three very cosy-looking arm-chairs.

"Throwing myself into one, I began to discuss my frugal luncheon with considerable appet.i.te, and had nearly finished when the door opened, and in came the most curious-looking little man I have ever set eyes on.

That he was a seaman was perfectly apparent to the meanest intelligence, and I at once set him down as the first officer--as they call themselves nowadays--or perhaps even the skipper, of a tramp steamer. He was certainly not more than five feet in height, but his breadth of shoulder and depth of chest were so enormous as to amount, literally, to a deformity; and I should judge that his strength must be herculean, as the novelists say. He was bronzed to the colour of deep mahogany, and had a heavy black moustache and a beard which grew right up to his eyes--deep-set, black, and as brilliant as diamonds. Added to this he wore gold ear-rings, and, altogether, was as like my conception of one of the pirates of old, about whom we used to read in our young days, as any man possibly could be.

"From the moment the man entered the room I began to feel deeply interested in him, and could scarcely refrain from staring at him openly. 'Here,' I said to myself, 'is a personality; a man who has knocked about the world during most of his life; a man who has seen things and done things, some of which, probably, would not bear too close scrutiny.' For he gave me the impression of being a person who would make a good, stanch friend, but who would prove to be a thoroughly bad and dangerous enemy.

"Apparently he was a bit surprised to find anybody else in the captains'

sanctum at that time of day; and, after the first hasty glance, it seemed as though he, too, was taking more than usual interest in your humble servant; for every time I raised my eyes to take a quiet look at him, I found his black, glittering orbs fixed on me, with that curious, unblinking stare that you may have noticed among certain species of birds. Seriously, d.i.c.k, I can tell you that he kept this staring business up so long that I was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable, and had made up my mind to finish my meal as soon as possible and continue my journey down to the docks, when I heard him give vent to a kind of grunt, which might have expressed satisfaction, dissatisfaction, disgust, or any other feeling for aught I could judge.

"Then, taking his eyes off me, this curious customer tugged the bell and ordered the servant to bring him a gla.s.s of 'rum hot', and a bit of cold meat and bread; from which, when it arrived, he began to make a meal, eating as though it were the first time he had touched food for several days. Indeed, he ate so fast and so wolfishly, that by the time I had finished my own meal, and had rung the bell for the bill, my piratical friend was also pushing away his plate with a sigh of satisfaction, and asking for his bill. Both reckonings having been paid, I was on the point of leaving the room when the stranger, whose name I afterwards learned was Drake--a quite appropriate name, I thought, for such a freebooter-looking character--put out a great, hairy paw as though to prevent me, and remarked, in a deep, rumbling voice:--

"'One moment, young gentleman. Unless you are in a great hurry I'd like to have a word or two with you.'

"Naturally, d.i.c.k, I was a little astonished," proceeded Murray, "but I must confess that I had become vastly interested in the little man, and, as offers of employment sometimes come from the most unlikely sources, like a drowning man clutching at a straw I determined to hear what he had to say. Possibly it might lead to something; and in any case I felt that I should do no harm by listening to him.

"'I think I can spare you a few minutes,' I remarked. 'What is it you wish to see me about?'

"'You're a seaman, aren't you?' he said, answering my question with another.

"'Yes,' I replied, 'I am.'

"'Navy man, too, unless I'm much mistaken,' was his next remark.

"'Well,' I said, rather hesitatingly, 'I was a Navy man--a lieutenant-- not so very long ago, but I had the misfortune to lose my ship under circ.u.mstances for which, I must say, in justice to myself, I think I was hardly to blame. However, the members of the court martial took a different view of the case, and I was, to put it bluntly, dismissed the Service. Since then I have been looking out for other employment-- something in my own line, if possible; but if not, then anything that I can lay my hands on. But so far, I am sorry to say, I have met with nothing but rebuffs. n.o.body on the face of this earth appears to need a man with my qualifications just now.'

"'Ha, ha!' chuckled the little man, rubbing his hands gleefully. 'Just as I thought when I first set eyes on you. Here, says I to myself, is a seaman, sure enough--I could tell that at the first glance--a Navy man, too, by the way he carries himself, and no longer in the Service by the general--er--um--not on active duty at the moment, I mean to say,' he ended, rather lamely, with an apologetic cough.

"I felt myself going red round the ears, d.i.c.k, and might have been inclined to be angry had anyone else spoken thus. But there was something about my little pirate that a.s.sured me he did not in the least intend to be offensive, so I only laughed, rather ruefully. If my 'out-of-work' condition was so apparent as to be noted by even a common seaman, it was no wonder, I told myself, that I so often came out of private offices with the words, 'Nothing to suit you, I'm afraid, Mr Frobisher', ringing in my ears.

"'Well,' I said, 'granted that I am an ex-naval officer looking for a job, what bearing has that upon your business with me? For I suppose you must have some idea that you and I can do business together, since you started the conversation.'

"'What bearing?' he repeated. 'Well, I'll just tell you. As it happens, I'm looking at this moment for exactly such a man as you appear to be. My name's Drake--Captain John Drake, of the tramp steamer _Quernmore_, two thousand five hundred and sixty tons register, to be exact--and, from what you've just said, I think I could make a pretty good shot at your tally. Should I be very far wrong if I said that you were ex-lieutenant Murray Frobisher?'

"'On the contrary,' I answered, 'you would have hit the bull's-eye dead in the centre.'

"'I was certain of it,' he smiled; 'and again I say, more emphatically than ever, that you're the very man I'm looking for. If you'll take that chair and pull up to the fire, I'll take the other and we'll have a bit of a palaver.'

"Having seated ourselves comfortably, Drake at once proceeded:--