Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen. Thank you, Iain Somerville! [Illustration: cover] THE SALVING OF THE "FUSI YAMA" BY PERCY F. WESTERMAN LIEUT. R.A.F. ------ "No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages without a quickening of his pulses."--Outlook. ------ The Salving of the "Fusi Yama": A Post-War Story of the Sea. Sea Scouts All: How the _Olivette_ was won. Winning his Wings: A Story of the R.A.F. The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge: April, 1918. With Beatty off Jutland: A Romance of the Great Sea Fight. The Submarine Hunters: A Story of Naval Patrol Work. A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the Western Front. A Sub and a Submarine: The Story of H.M. Submarine R19 in the Great War. Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great War. The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British Motor-cyclists with the Belgian Forces. The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland. Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great War. The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli Peninsula. Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure. The Quest of the "Golden Hope": A Seventeenth-century Story of Adventure. A Lad of Grit: A Story of Restoration Times. LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. [Illustration: A SUBMARINE DUEL _Frontispiece_ (missing from book)] THE SALVING OF THE "FUSI YAMA" A Post-War Story of the Sea BY PERCY F. WESTERMAN _Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson_ BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY Contents CHAP. I. ROCKS AHEAD II. TO THE RESCUE III. SIGNING ON IV. COMRADES ALL V. THE "FUSI YAMA" VI. THE YACHT "TITANIA" VII. SAND-BAGGED VIII. THE "TITANIA" SAILS IX. "WHERE AM I?" X. A CHOICE OF TWO EVILS XI. VILLIERS' RETURN XII. PETE AND THE MUTINY XIII. ADVICE AND BLUFF XIV. SUNK IN COLLISION XV. WHAT DID DICK DO? XVI. THE WRONG ISLAND XVII. NUA LEHA XVIII. THE FIRST DAY ON THE ISLAND XIX. MISSING XX. UP AND DOWN XXI. A GOOD NIGHT'S WORK XXII. VON GIESPERT HEARS NEWS XXIII. EUREKA! XXIV. THE HURRICANE XXV. "KONKED OUT" XXVI. HARBOROUGH'S RUSE XXVII. A SUBMARINE DUEL XXVIII. THE EXPLOSION XXIX. A FRUSTRATED ESCAPE XXX. VON GIESPERT'S RESOLVE XXXI. EXIT THE "ZUG" XXXII. SETTLING ACCOUNTS Illustrations ------ A SUBMARINE DUEL _Frontispiece_ (missing from book) SAND-BAGGED UNMASKED HE WAS NO LONGER AN AMIABLE SWEDE (missing from book) THE GERMANS WERE DUMFOUNDED JACK WAS PINNED PRETTY FIRMLY AGAINST THE CEILING CLAVERHOUSE STEERS THE SEAPLANE INTO THE LAGOON THE SALVING OF THE "FUSI YAMA" CHAPTER I Rocks Ahead "And how do you like being out of harness, old top?" inquired Jack Villiers. The "old top", otherwise Bobby Beverley, late Sub-Lieutenant of the Motor Boat Reserve, squared his shoulders and thrust his hands deeply into the pockets of a well-worn salt-stained monkey-jacket. "Candidly, dear old thing, I don't like it one little bit," he replied. "A fish out of water isn't in it." "I believe that's an undisputed fact," interrupted the other. "And I jolly well begin to realize it," continued Beverley with conviction. "There are thousands in the same boat, but that doesn't alter my position. Fact remains, I see rocks ahead." "Is that so?" inquired Villiers seriously. "What is it? Short of the ready?" Beverley shook his head. "Not that," he replied, with the confidence that a Service man will display when discussing financial matters with a brother-officer. "I've been careful, after a fashion, and there's my gratuity, and a bit of prize-money when that comes along. Enough to carry on with for a bit; but, hang it all, what's a fellow to do? I don't like the idea of taking on a job in an office. When you've been in charge of a crew for the last three years, you don't like knuckling under and being bossed; you know what I mean." "Precisely, old bird," agreed Villiers. "Same here. I'd go off to Rhodesia like a shot, only I don't know a blessed thing about farming. I'd go to sea again, but the Mercantile Marine is chock-a-block with demobbed Royal Naval Reserve men with Board of Trade certificates and deep-sea experience. That's where we're bunkered, old boy. But never mind. Something'll turn up. It's a case of grasping Dame Fortune by the forelock, whatever that is. 'Fraid the only forelock I'm acquainted with is the forelock of an anchor, and that's apt to let you down badly if you don't watch it." The two chums had encountered each other just outside the docks at Southampton. Both had recently been demobilized from the parent ship _Hermione,_ Villiers' "M.L." having been paid off a fortnight before Beverley's craft had gone to lay up indefinitely in the Hamble River. Jack Villiers was a tall, sparely-built fellow, bronzed, athletic, and moving with a typically nautical roll that one is bound to acquire by three years' acquaintance with the open sea. The only son of a formerly well-to-do Devonshire man, Jack found himself "out of a berth" with precious few prospects of obtaining employment of anything approaching a congenial nature. He had gone straight from a public school into the R.N.V.R and for three years he had risked his life for his country and had had enough experiences of warfare afloat to last a lifetime. He knew how to handle men, to take over responsibility in a tight corner, and generally to steel his nerves and act promptly in emergencies. He had a roof over his head, albeit the enamelled roof of the M.L.'s ward-room; good and ample food, a genial superior officer, and a crew with whom he was undoubtedly popular. His salary was sufficient for his needs, although it compared unfavourably with the wages of the average munition-worker ashore, and generally speaking he had, to quote his own words, "a top-hole time". But at the end of the three years it was quite another story. The prospect of completing his education at a university had vanished. His second string--a course at an Engineering Training College--had snapped, His father, hard hit by the war, was no longer in a position to render financial aid, and it became apparent that Jack Villiers would have to cut out a line for himself. The burning question was how? The prospect of a commercial life appalled him. His utter inexperience of the world was against him, and it was doubtful whether, during that period of unrest that almost invariably besets the demobilized man, he could settle to sedentary work. The call of the sea, the craving for spirited and healthy adventure, militated against the prospect of a hum-drum life. Bobby Beverley was in much the same state--possibly worse. He was additionally hampered by having to provide for his fifteen-year-old brother Dick, who was at present a boarder in a well-known school near Salisbury. Bobby's parents were both dead. Mr. Beverley, taking up a commission in the Army Service Corps, at the age of forty, had been killed in action somewhere in France. His widow survived him by but a few months, while Dick had to be maintained out of a scanty "compassionate allowance ", largely augmented by a considerable portion of his elder brother's Sub-Lieutenant's pay. And now Bobby Beverley was faced with two problems: his own future and that of Dick when the latter left school, which would be at no distant date. "Let's trot along and have lunch," suggested Villiers. "I know of a decent little show in the High Street. Dash it all! I remembered in time," he added, as he replaced his cap after saluting a lady. "Only just beginning to remember I'm in mufti. Passed Barry's missus this morning, and, by Jove! I was going to salute Navy fashion when I recollected I was out of it. Good old times those, George." "They were," admitted "George" fervently, accepting without demur the name that for some unaccountable reason is indiscriminately bestowed upon members of the Senior Service. "We had our sticky times, of course. Then we groused like the rest of 'em. But that's a back number. Looking at it retrospectively, it wasn't a bad sort of stunt. And now there's the future." "There won't be one for you on this old planet if you aren't more careful," interrupted Villiers, as he gripped his chum by the arm and hiked him on to the pavement just in time to escape being run down by a motor-cyclist. "Bless my soul! It's Alec Claverhouse; and on a brand-new 1919 jigger, too." The recognition was mutual, for the motor-cyclist slowed down and came to a standstill with one foot on the kerb within twenty yards of the spot where he had all but collided with Bobby Beverley. From what could be seen of him Alec Claverhouse appeared to be a tall, burly fellow. Tall he certainly was, but the burliness was largely deceptive, since he was wearing thick clothing and heavy motor mackintosh overalls. His forehead was concealed by a golf-cap pulled well down, while resting upon the peak were a pair of goggles that were evidently considered by their owner to be necessary adjuncts to the "doggy" appearance of a "speed merchant". Claverhouse was an ex-lieutenant of the Royal Air Force--or Flying-Officer according to the revised and much criticized style of rank. He had been demobilized for more than five months, and after a long and wearisome search for a job had taken up a not too lucrative post at a motor-engineering works, part of his duty being to risk his neck and those of others of His Majesty's lieges by testing cars and motor-cycles on the King's highway. Up to the present he had been fairly fortunate in having his licence endorsed but twice, although it was a wonder that the fatal third endorsement had not been recorded. Like a good many other air-pilots Claverhouse, used to travelling at 120 miles an hour, found that a paltry twenty over the ground was a mere crawl. "Cheerio, Beverley, old bird!" he exclaimed boisterously. "Hardly expected to run up against you. Still in it, I see. And, Villiers, you dear old thing! so they've chucked you out." "Both of us," corrected Beverley. "We were discussing the prospects of hacking our way to fame and prosperity when you nearly settled the problem for us." "Always ready to be of assistance," rejoined Claverhouse. "By the by, seen any of the old Abermurchan crowd lately?" "Not since last July," replied Beverley. "Villiers and I came south together when the M.L. base packed up. The Air Station was due to close down almost immediately, I remember. What are you doing here?" "Trying to find my feet," was the reply. "In other words, pottering about in a glorified garage waiting for a snip. I'm thinking of going abroad." "That's about as far as we've got," said Villiers. "But at present we're thinking of having lunch. Come along with us." "My 'bus," protested Alec. "Shove it round the back of the show," suggested Villiers. "Get on with it and then you can reserve a table. We'll be there in less than five minutes." Claverhouse fell in with the suggestion and rode off. Arriving at the restaurant he was fortunate in securing a corner table. Five minutes passed, but there were no signs of Villiers and Beverley. Ten minutes passed. "Wonder if they're acting the giddy goat with me?" he soliloquized as he carelessly picked up a copy of _The Times_ and began to scan the Personal Column. Why he did so he hardly knew. There was little of interest to him in the long list of appeals for work by demobilized men, though it roused his sympathy. Somehow it didn't seem right that fellows who had fought for the country should have to eat out of the hands of the stay-at-homes who for a dead certainty would have had no home had the Hun been top-dog. Half-way down the column he came across an advertisement of a length and novelty unusual even to the unique Agony Column of _The Times_. Its audacity held him until he became aware of the arrival of Villiers and Beverley by receiving a vigorous thump on his shoulder. "Sorry we're late, old son," exclaimed the former apologetically. "Ran across old Hammersley just under the Bargate. You remember him?" Claverhouse nodded, then put the paper on the table. "Cast your eye on this, old thing," he said. "A bit tall, eh, what?" "What, Rio del Oro shares? Thanks, I'm not having any," said Villiers decidedly. "No, next column," explained Claverhouse. "There, where my thumb is." "What's the wheeze?" inquired Beverley, craning his neck and looking over Villier's shoulder. "That's what I want to know," replied Alec. "If there's anything in it, I'm on." The announcement was as follows:-- "To Demobilized Officers. Those wishing for further excitement and adventure overseas and who are physically and mentally capable of taking care of themselves are invited to communicate with the under-signed. An enterprise involving the risking of two hundred and fifty pounds per head is in contemplation. The capital may be lost; on the other hand, there is a possibility of a gain of one thousand per cent upwards. Applications are especially invited from ex-members of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and Royal Air Force, but those persons formerly serving in other branches of H.M. Services will be given consideration. Full particulars of the scheme, which will require twelve months' personal service, will be supplied to _bona fide_ applicants.--Address, 'Joystick', c/o Messrs. Steady and Strong, Richborough Chambers, Southampton." "Claptrap!" declared Villiers, taking up the menu-card, which represented something rather more concrete, and consequently rather more digestible, than the newspaper announcement. "P'raps," admitted Claverhouse, with his characteristic drawl. "'Tany rate the bloke's straightforward enough to tell you that you might be chucking your money away." "That's so," agreed Beverley. "We can investigate. I suppose there's no obligation to carry on if the thing looks fishy." "I don't mind going that far," said Villiers. "And if it looks a sound scheme I'll plank down three hundred. After all three hundred is only worth about a hundred and eighty pounds, and if we are kept employed for a twelvemonth and get a bit of excitement chucked in, well--we might just as soon spend our gratuities that way as being rooked and rushed at home." Beverley made no audible comment. He was of a cautious nature, and his cautiousness was heightened by the fact that he was responsible for the maintenance of a young brother for at least a couple of years. While the waiter was taking orders the subject was dropped, but as soon as the man had departed Claverhouse returned to the matter. "Wonder if it's a filibustering stunt?" he hazarded. "Or piracy," added Villiers. "I heard a yarn floating around only yesterday about a merchant skipper whose crew were killed in cold blood by a U-boat. The old man was taken prisoner, but managed to escape, and now he's vowed to get his own back. How I don't know, unless he turns pirate and goes for every Fritz he falls in with on the high seas." "Thanks, I'm not having any there," declared Beverley. "I don't want to find myself hanging in the modern equivalent to Execution Dock." "Nor I," added Villiers. "Apparently this stunt has something to do with the sea, since it's R.N.V.R. fellows who are wanted." "And Air Force blokes," said Claverhouse gently. "Nothing like sticking up for your own crush, old bird," remarked Villiers. "Yes, that part puzzles me a bit. Look here, let's take Beverley's advice and make inquiries. If it isn't all jonnick we can pipe down." "When?" asked Claverhouse. "Now? At once?" Villiers laughed. "Hardly," he replied. "Pretty guys we'd look trotting round to Richborough Chambers and asking for 'Joystick'. It's too much like asking for trouble to my mind. No, the best thing we can do without compromising ourselves is to write and ask for an interview. Then we can resolve ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means." "Joint letter?" asked Beverley. "No, individual, briefly stating our qualifications," replied Villiers. "But, in that case, you or I might be sent for and the others ignored," objected Claverhouse. "I vote we stick together--united we stand sort of touch." "That's the stuff to give 'em," was Villiers' rejoinder. CHAPTER II To the Rescue It was not until the following Thursday afternoon that Villiers, as head of the informal Mutual Advancement Syndicate, received a reply to the joint letter to "Joystick". As Villiers had expected, the letter gave no clue to the nature of the proposed undertaking, but consisted of a brief intimation that the advertiser would be pleased to interview Messrs. Villiers, Beverley, and Claverhouse at Richborough Chambers at 3 p.m. that day. "We're progressing," he observed, as he handed the letter to Bobby. "Now comes the fun. Will 'Joystick' take a rise out of us, or shall we pull his leg? Let's go round and rout out Claverhouse." "He'll be at his one-horse show garage," said Beverley. "Better look him up at lunch-time." "Won't give him enough warning," objected Villiers. "We'll tackle him at once and let him know how things stand. 'Raise steam and prepare for immediate action', eh, what?" They happened across Alec Claverhouse just outside the motor-works. He was about to take a 60-h.p. "Odouresque" out for a test run. "Cheerio!" he exclaimed. "Any luck?" "Read this," replied Villiers. "My festive friend, you'll have to pipe down this afternoon. Thursday's 'Make and mend', you know." "Not in this rotten show," said Claverhouse. "The civilian equivalent to the Adjutant bird in these works is a regular Cossack for granting time off. I haven't a great grandmother to bury, nor is there a football match on this afternoon, so honours are even on that score. What do you think of this little lad? Guess I'll knock sixty out of her on the road." "In that case," remarked Beverley, "you'll get run in by the police and sacked by the firm, so before you do find yourself in the cart why don't you apply for leave?" "I will, sure," replied Claverhouse, throwing off his leather-lined coat and tossing it into the coupé. "Hang on half a tick, and I'll tell you the result of the poll." He disappeared from view, leaving Jack and Bobby to admire the workmanship and general "get up" of the powerful "Odouresque". In less than five minutes he reappeared, beaming and smiling. "It's all O.K.," he announced. "I cut the rotten red tape and saw the manager. While I was about it--'in for a penny, in for a pound' stunt you know--I asked if he had any objection to you fellows coming with me. Said he hadn't, as long as the firm hadn't to pay your funeral exes; so hop in and let's get a move on." Nothing loth the two chums boarded the car, Villiers sitting by Claverhouse while Beverley reclined in lordly fashion on the back seat. Almost imperceptibly, in response to a touch of the electric starter, the powerful car glided away. There was no doubt about it. Claverhouse knew how to handle a high-horse-powered engine, and before the car had traversed the length of the crowded High Street, and had adroitly negotiated the narrow Bargate, both Villiers and Beverley had abandoned the mental visions of finding themselves either in a mortuary or in an infirmary. Alec kept the car well retarded until he reached the outskirts of Southampton, then opening out slightly he soon covered the somewhat hilly road between the seaport and the cathedral city of Winchester, but never once did the needle of the speedometer point above twenty-five. "Don't think I was boasting about the sixty," remarked Claverhouse. "There's a fine stretch of open road ahead. Then you watch her rip. Keep your eye on the speedometer. It's the only indication of the rate we're doing." Presently the chalky highway ascended a long hill that forms part of the North Downs. Ahead as far as the eye could reach was a desolate stretch of unfenced road with a wide expanse of undulating grass-land on either side--straight as a die in the direction but interrupted by a number of gentle gradients. "Worthy Down," announced Alec. "Four hundred feet up. Now she'll rip." Rip she did. Swiftly the needle rose from thirty to forty-five. "All serene?" asked Claverhouse, only this time he did not turn his head. His whole attention was centred upon the road, yet so silent and well protected was the car that he could speak in an ordinary tone and be heard distinctly. "Quite," replied Villiers. Fifty, fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five, seventy. The "Odouresque" was travelling. The wind whistled past the screens, the chalk road blended into a vague, swiftly-rushing riband of white. Everything within fifty yards was indistinct, like a badly-focused photograph, while for a mile behind the car a dense cloud of dust eddied in the back-draught of the swiftly-moving vehicle. "Look out, old man," cautioned Villiers. "There's a cyclist ahead." "Yes, I see him," replied Alec, gently retarding the terrific momentum. "'Fraid he's spoiled my record." "Motor-cyclist," corrected Jack, as the approaching machine breasted one of the intervening ridges and disappeared in a dip of the road. "Wonder if anything would happen if a bike going at, say, forty, passed a big car doing seventy? If----" He broke off. Simultaneously Claverhouse throttled down and applied the side-brakes. Before the car could be brought to a standstill it had surmounted a slight rise and was on the down grade leading to another ascent half a mile or more away. Right in the hollow was a confused group of figures which resolved itself into a motor-cyclist bravely defending himself against four rough-looking men. The cycle lay on the grass a good ten yards from the road and a fifth ruffian was already beginning to ransack the contents of a case strapped to the carrier. At first sight Villiers thought that there had been an accident, and that the motor-cyclist had collided with a group of pedestrians, but he was speedily undeceived. It was a case of highway robbery. Unfortunately, from the footpads' point of view, the rascals had not bargained for the approach of a car at seventy miles an hour. Lying in wait for the solitary traveller, they had taken the precaution to see that the straight road was otherwise deserted when the object of their attention approached. Nor were they aware of the presence of the swift, silent car until it appeared to leap from the ground within a hundred yards of them. "Look out, chums!" shouted the fellow standing over the fallen motor-cycle, and acting upon his own warning he promptly took to his heels. The others also fled, but not before one of them was held by the attacked motor-cyclist. It looked as if the fellow would be made a prisoner, for the other held on like a leech, until the ruffian drew a knife and struck. "After them!" yelled Beverley, taking a flying leap from the car. Villiers was a close second, ignoring Claverhouse's suggestion to take the car in pursuit. As it was the chase was futile. The assailants, young, agile, and strong in wind, scattered in different directions, steadily outdistancing the three new arrivals, hampered as they were with heavy coats. "Pity we didn't stick to the car," remarked Alec regretfully, as puffed and pouring with perspiration they made their way back to the victim of the attack. "I bet we would have run at least two of them to earth. Fine sport it would have been, and the grass makes good going. Hallo! He's up again." Claverhouse indicated the unfortunate motor-cyclist, who, holding one arm below the elbow, was ruefully contemplating his steed. "Hurt, sir?" inquired Villiers. "Scratch," replied the other with equal laconism. Then, as if the presence of his rescuers was unnoticed, he fumbled with the fingers of his uninjured arm until he succeeded in opening the leather case on the carrier. Apparently his investigations were satisfactory, for, closing the lid, he turned towards the three chums. "Thanks, awfully, for your timely assistance," he exclaimed. "It was very remiss of me not to say so before, but my head feels a trifle dizzy. I'm afraid I haven't quite got the hang of things yet." "Let me bind your arm," suggested Beverley. "It is bleeding rather badly." "So it is," admitted the stranger. "I hardly noticed it, but it's tingling a bit now." Villiers helped him off with his motor-cycling coat and jacket and rolled up his sleeve. "Clean cut," announced Beverley. "Any first-aid gadgets in the car, Alec?" "Trust me for that," replied Claverhouse. "I'll fetch the wallet." "Any suggestion as to the cause of that attack?" asked Villiers. "Can't say," was the non-committal reply. "I'm sorry they got away--very." "So am I," agreed Villiers sincerely. "According to the papers, robbery with violence is on the increase. One of the after-results of the war, I suppose. Going far?" "Southampton," replied the stranger. "I have an engagement at three." "So have we," added Beverley. "Is your bike all right?" Examination proved that it was rideable, although the front wheel was slightly buckled and the exhaust-lever cable had snapped. "You'd better come in the car," suggested Claverhouse, when the bandaging operation was completed. "One of my friends can ride your bike." "I'd be eternally grateful," replied the motor-cyclist. "I'm not much of a hand at this sort of game, but with this wretched railway strike on, what is a fellow to do?" "It's no use hanging on to the slack," observed Claverhouse, moving in the direction of the car. "Jump in and let's get along. First stop Winchester, I presume?" "What for?" asked the stranger. "Not on my account?" "But surely," said Claverhouse, in astonishment, "you are going to inform the police?" "A waste of valuable time," objected the other. "No, if you don't mind dropping me in Southampton I'll be doubly obliged. I'll take that attaché case with me, if you please." "Good enough," agreed Claverhouse. "Beverley, dear old soul, you're riding the bike, I believe?" "That is so," admitted Bobby. "And," continued Alec, with a grin, "you think you'll hang on to us? You'll be dropped, old son, for a dead cert. So don't you think it would be just as well to ask this gentleman's address? Where shall we put you down, sir?" he asked, turning to the stranger. "Richborough Chambers," was the unexpected reply. "Well, I'm hanged!" exclaimed Villiers. "That's rummy--very. Do you happen to know of a fellow who, for certain reasons, calls himself 'Joystick'?" A faint smile overspread the man's bull-dog features. "I am 'Joystick'," he replied. CHAPTER III Signing On For some minutes "Joystick" remained silent, enjoying the obvious astonishment of the trio. "You need not introduce yourselves," he continued. "You are Robert Beverley; you are Jack Villiers, and you are Alec Claverhouse--I presume you pronounce your name in Scots' fashion." "You are a veritable Sherlock Holmes," declared Villiers. The other raised a hand deprecatingly. "I cannot aspire to that degree of intelligence," he remarked. "So, to remove misunderstandings, I will explain. You said you had an appointment at Southampton at three. I mentioned Richborough Chambers, and then you asked if I knew 'Joystick'. Amongst many applications for an interview I had a joint letter signed by you three fellows. I heard Beverley called by name. That accounted for one of you, and left two--Villiers and Claverhouse. One looked like a naval man, the other did not, but he had an accent that hails from north of the Tweed. Simple, eh? and, by the by, since I know your names, there is no reason why I should screen myself under a nom-de-plume or nom-de-guerre, or whatever you like to call it. I'm called Harborough--Hugh Harborough." "Late Lieutenant-Commander, R.N.V.R.?" asked Villiers. "Correct," was the reply. "And Sir Hugh Harborough," continued Jack. "I believe I have a handle to my name," replied the baronet, smiling. "However, that's a detail. I didn't ask for it. A fellow cannot be responsible for the deeds: or misdeeds of his great-great-grandfather." "That excuse cannot apply to your D.S.O.," urged Villiers, following up his attack. It was Sir Hugh's turn to look astonished. "How do you know that?" he asked. "Merely because I happened to know a fellow in the Inchlellan Patrol who had been transferred from Poldene. He knew you. Carruthers is his name." "Good man, Carruthers," exclaimed Sir Hugh. "I'd like to meet him again. But this isn't Southampton. What do you say to an alteration of plan? Come back to 'Thalassa Towers' and have lunch with me. Then, if you don't mind running me into Southampton, I can interview some more fellows at 3.30. It's only a matter of eight and a half miles to my place." It was Alec Claverhouse who was the first to agree to the revised programme, and since he was in charge of the "Odouresque" Company's car it was only right that he should take the responsibility of delaying its return. Provided the car was returned to the works and reported "passed for road work" by three o'clock there would be no cause for anxiety on the part of the officials of the company. "Any objection to a speed burst, Sir Hugh?" he asked. "None whatever," was the reply. "What'll she do?" For answer Alec let the car all out. She was soon doing seventy-five, while Beverley, on the twin "Mephisto" was almost out of sight far astern. But Beverley was cautious in most things, and on a strange mount he did not feel inclined to give the engine full throttle. "To the left at the fork roads," cautioned the baronet. "Hadn't you better let Beverley reduce station a bit? No, I don't think the footpads will molest him. It was this they were after, I fancy." And he tapped the attaché-case at his side. A quarter of an hour later the "Odouresque" was sweeping along the extensive drive leading to Thalassa Towers, with the "Mephisto" fifty yards behind. "Make yourselves at home, and please drop all formality," said the baronet. "This isn't a Service stunt, and personally I'm dead set on red tape. Had quite enough of that the last four years. 'Fraid the place is rather in a muddle. You see, I only succeeded to the title in '15, when my elder brother went under at Ypres, and I haven't spent much time at the old show since." "I like his idea of a muddle," thought Beverley, as a well-served lunch was being quickly provided, although at short notice. There seemed an abundance of servants, and, what was somewhat remarkable, there was a large touring-car and a light run-about in the garage. Why then did Sir Hugh risk his neck on a motor-cycle? Harborough personally led the way to a bath-room, and then, excusing himself, disappeared for a few minutes to return divested of his mackintosh overalls. He was of average build, bronzed complexion, with heavy jaw and cheek bones. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, extending in an almost continuous straight line below a forehead of medium height. His iron-grey hair was close-cropped and grew low on his temples. When he smiled, which was rarely, a double row of even white teeth rather toned down an otherwise blunt, determined, and somewhat reckless-looking face. Instinctively the three chums felt that Sir Hugh was "sizing them up" before broaching the important subject. He put them entirely at their ease, chatting casually on common-place subjects during lunch, but the while there was the feeling that every question he asked, however simple, was with the object of plumbing the minds of his guests. Villiers tried to "draw him" on the matter of the idle motor-cars, but the baronet avoided the subject adroitly yet without any suspicion of awkwardness, and the conversation drifted through the merits of No. 6 shot for rabbit-shooting and the prospects of next year's yachting to a discussion on heavier versus lighter-than-air machines. "Suppose we make tracks for the smoking-room?" suggested Sir Hugh, when lunch was finished. The smoking-room was cosily furnished in old oak, and like the rest of the rooms on the ground floor the windows were heavily barred. There were also steel shutters, opening and folding inwards against the sides of the deep window-recesses. Both bars and shutters were unmistakably recent additions. The baronet motioned to his guests to seat themselves, and handed cigarettes. Then placing the attaché-case on the table he took up his position on the hearthrug, leaning against the carved mantelpiece. "Now to business," he began abruptly. "I'm not asking for recruits for a filibustering expedition, piracy, or any of that sort of work. I'm taking on a speculative but above-board deal, which will involve hard work, peril, and perhaps losing the number of your mess. I believe you, Claverhouse, would term the latter contingency 'Going West', but you know what I mean. Briefly, I hope to fish up a million and a half in bullion and specie, the principal part of the cargo of a ship sunk by von Spee's squadron somewhere in the Pacific. I know where that somewhere is; the exact position is recorded in a document lying in that attaché-case. Incidentally, I have good reason to believe that this morning's little affair was promoted by a clever scoundrel who is particularly anxious to obtain the secret and to see me safely out of the way. Those bars and shutters, which I noticed that you were admiring just now, are part of the defensive scheme; so you see, apart from the mere excitement of treasure-hunting, there is a subsidiary stratum of danger to add to the zest of the prospectors." "That sounds promising, Sir Hugh," observed Villiers. "And as to terms," continued the baronet. "Each member of the expedition--I propose to bring up the number to fifteen or eighteen--will be required to contribute two hundred and fifty pounds towards the cost. I will find the balance. Meals and quarters will be provided free, but there will be no guarantee that each member's capital will be returned. It won't even be secured. If, as I expect, the venture is a success, half the profit will be divided between my assistants plus their two hundred and fifty pounds, while I have the rest of the proceeds. Now, have you any remarks?" "Seems quite O.K.," replied Claverhouse. "After all's said, two hundred and fifty pounds isn't much for a twelvemonth's travel with board and lodging thrown in, as we remarked when we saw your advertisement." "There's more than that," said Sir Hugh. "The stake makes every man take the keenest interest in the work. He realizes that it's up to him to do his level best for his comrades and himself. I could, of course, engage a professional crew, but nowadays one can't depend upon paid labour whether ashore or afloat. This railway strike, for example, although the way the Government's tackling it was a complete surprise." "We volunteered," remarked Villiers, "either for road or marine transport, but we were three amongst thousands and didn't have a sniff in. Motor jobs all snapped up and only a few fellows required for marine work." "That's satisfactory from one point," said Harborough. "It shows that a considerable section of the community supposed to be relatively helpless can get a move on. The war has brought them out, as it were; helped them to find their feet. But that's where I was let down when my chauffeur struck suddenly. Driving a car isn't one of my accomplishments." "We noticed you had a couple of cars," observed Beverley. "And wondered accordingly, I presume," added Sir Hugh drily. "Let me explain. My chauffeur fellow wanted more pay, although I had raised his wages recently. Thought he had me under his thumb, so to speak, when the railway strike came, but I wasn't going to be bluffed. So he went off at once, presumably to join the taxi-driver crush in town. He'd make a fine brigand. I can drive a four-in-hand with credit. Took on the job of driving a stage-coach in Winnipeg fifteen years ago, and was glad to get four dollars a day for doing it. So you see, I've had my ups and downs in life, and I'm not sorry. Since I couldn't drive the car and there was no one on the spot to drive for me, I sent my gardener boy into Farnham to bring back a motor-bike. The 'Mephisto' was the only one he could get, and a hundred guineas at that, but you see, I'm always particular to keep my appointments. I mustn't forget the one at Southampton at three-thirty," he added, glancing at his watch. "Now, have I made myself sufficiently clear for the present? If you require time to think the proposition over, there is no immediate hurry for a day or so--say Monday morning." "I'm on it," declared the impulsive Villiers. "And I," added the hitherto deliberate Claverhouse. Bobby Beverley hesitated. "Out with it, man," exclaimed Harborough encouragingly. "Nothing like speaking your mind. What's the difficulty? Anything of a private nature?" "Not at all, Sir Hugh," replied Beverley, flushing slightly under his tan. "I'd like to come, only----" The baronet guessed the nature of the impediment. He was right, but he was too keen a judge of human nature to prompt the still hesitating youth. "It's like this," resumed Bobby, plunging into details. "I can't very well raise that two hundred and fifty pounds without getting credit. I've a young brother to look after." "How old?" inquired Harborough. "Fifteen this month." "H'm, beginning to think what he wants to be," commented the baronet. "What are you doing with him?" "He's at boarding-school," answered Bobby. "I think he'll go in for motor-engineering. He wanted to have a shot for Sandhurst, but, unless something turns up, I can't run to it." "Nothing like the Service for a healthy youngster, provided he's keen," commented Sir Hugh. "Wish I'd gone in for Osborne when I was a lad. Instead of that I got out of hand, and my governor packed me off to Canada to find my feet. I did," he added grimly. The baronet glanced at his watch again, and then addressed Villiers. "Can you drive a car?" he asked. "You can--good. Will you mind driving me in? Claverhouse can take his, and then I'll have something to get home in. Excuse me a moment while I get my gear." He went out, taking the attaché-case with him. Villiers turned to his companions. "Wonder if he's fixed up for the return journey?" he remarked. "Bobby, you thundering old ox, why the blazing Harry did you hedge? I'd have advanced you the ready like a shot." "I know, old man," replied Beverley. "I'd jump at it, but there's Dick. I'm a non-starter." "Tell you what----" began Villiers. He got no further, for at that instant the door opened and Harborough appeared. "Can you spare me a minute, Beverley?" he asked. Beverley went out. His chums exchanged glances. "It's a deal after all, old bean," remarked Claverhouse. Bobby was absent not one but a good ten minutes. He returned with a radiant face, following the self-possessed Sir Hugh. "Beverley has signed on," announced the baronet briefly. CHAPTER IV Comrades All "When do we take over, sir?" inquired Villiers. The reply came sharp and to the point. "From now," replied Sir Hugh. "In Claverhouse's case, I understand, he will have to give in his resignation. There's one more point. In addition to board and quarters--you'll be regarded as members of the establishment--there will be an amount of two guineas a week to each of the syndicate until we leave England. That will be as soon as possible, but it would hardly be fair to expect you to hang on here without some slight remuneration. Now let's be going." The four men made their way to the garage, where Claverhouse showed Villiers how to manage the baronet's car, which was of a type that the R.N.V.R. man knew intimately. Then, having "started up", Claverhouse boarded the "Odouresque" with Beverley as his companion, while Sir Hugh and Villiers seated themselves in the other. The journey to Southampton was performed at strictly moderate speed, and nothing unusual occurred. Villiers led the way, the powerful "Odouresque" following a hundred yards behind at a pace that seemed a painful crawl to the road-hogging Alec. Just before the Bargate, Claverhouse took a side-road in order to return the car to the Odouresque Co., Ltd., leaving Villiers to take the head of the syndicate to Richborough Chambers. It was an intricate piece of work to negotiate the ancient and narrow gateway that spans Southampton's principal street. The road was not only greasy, and had tram lines on it, but there was a slight descent to the Bargate itself. Here stood a policeman regulating the traffic, since it was possible for vehicles to pass only in one direction at a time. The traffic was passing in the right direction as Villiers approached. Just ahead was a tramcar, while following the motor--he could see that by means of the reflector--was a petrol-driven dray with three or four men sitting on the otherwise empty body. The tramcar emerged from under the arch, but just as Villiers was immediately under the gate a cyclist, disregarding the policeman's upraised arm, dashed headlong towards the front of Villiers' car. Not for one moment did the ex-officer lose his nerve. To swerve meant wrecking the car and possibly injuring or killing its occupants. He applied both brakes, but the metal-shod tyres slithered on the greasy tramlines. The next instant the impact occurred. It was the cycle that bore the brunt of the collision. Its rider, with considerable dexterity, had dismounted, and leaping into safety had left his machine to meet destruction. The dray, pulling up, filled almost the whole of the archway, with its bonnet within a couple of inches of the tail of the car. Within a few seconds a crowd had collected. The traffic was held up while the policeman, note-book in hand, was taking particulars of the accident. "Take this," whispered the baronet, pushing a small blue-covered case into Villiers' hand. "It's my driving licence." "Have you a licence, sir?" inquired the policeman "I have," replied Villiers truthfully. "Here it is." The guardian of the law was visibly impressed by the name. "Very good, sir," he said saluting. "Merely a matter of form. I don't think you'll hear anything further about the accident. The cyclist was entirely in the wrong." "Punctual to the minute," remarked Sir Hugh, as the car drew up in front of Richborough Chambers. "Hallo! Where's that attaché-case?" It had vanished. Thinking perhaps that the sudden application of the brakes had jerked it under the seat, the baronet made a comprehensive search, but without result. "Rotten luck," commented Villiers. "Might have been worse," rejoined Sir Hugh oracularly. "Let's get in and see what's doing. The commissionaire will give an eye to the car." He led the way to a large room on the ground floor. From the adjoining room came the subdued hum of voices. "Adventure aspirants," remarked Sir Hugh, nodding his head in the direction whence the sounds came. "You'll be my secretary _pro tem_., Villiers. Cast your eye over these letters and see if you recognize any of the writers." He handed Villiers a bundle of about thirty envelopes. "I know three of these names," replied Jack, after scanning the contents of the communications. "Merridew, O'Loghlin, and Fontayne." "Anything detrimental?" "To the contrary," replied Villiers. "Good! We'll see them first. But one moment, I want an advertisement drafted, something to this effect:--'Lost from car, between Winchester and Southampton, attaché-case, containing papers of no value except to owner--no, say owners. Finder will be liberally rewarded on returning same.' That ought to fetch 'em." "Is the loss a very serious matter," asked Villiers. "To someone," replied Harborough. "The case wasn't lost, it was stolen!" "Stolen?" repeated Jack incredulously. "Precisely," continued the baronet. "But I'll go into the matter with you later. Now let's interview Messrs. Merridew and Co." The three ex-officers were considerably surprised when Jack Villiers entered the room where they were waiting, and asked them to "come this way". "Something good on, old man?" inquired O'Loghlin. "Sure it is if you've got a finger in the pie." Villiers was non-committal. He did not like the responsibility of advising his former comrades on this particular point. But in less than five minutes the trio had "signed on", and were told to report at Thalassa Towers at eleven on the following morning. The next applicant was an R.N.R. officer, Swaine by name, whose chief qualification lay in the fact that he had been employed by a salvage company and was an experienced diver. "I should think there are plenty of openings for you in England," remarked Harborough. "So there are, sir," replied Swaine, pulling out a bunch of letters from his pocket. "I've half a dozen jobs to go to in the salvage line, but I've seen enough of the North Sea and the English Channel the last four years. Somewhere in the Pacific would suit me, although you didn't say where, sir. S'long as it's not off Vladivostok, the Behring Straits, or south of the Chloe Archipelago, I'm on it." The selection business proceeded apace. Two men were "turned down" politely, for Harborough knew what he wanted and meant to get it. He was a shrewd judge of human nature. Another applicant "hedged", tried to be funny by asking irrelevant questions, and, remarking that he wasn't jolly well going to pay to work and chuck good quids away, put on his hat and departed. The last to be interviewed was a short, small-featured youngster with a very mild voice and manner, who blushed hotly when spoken to and showed considerable hesitation in framing his words. He seemed keen, but Villiers, looking on, felt certain that the youth wouldn't come up to the standard. "What's your Service experience, my lad?" asked Sir Hugh. "You've forgotten to mention that in your letter." For answer the youth handed in a sheet of paper--his record of service. Amongst other items it was noted that he was a flying-officer, held the M.C. with bar, and had been twice mentioned in dispatches for brilliant reconnaissance work over the enemy lines and for engaging and destroying three hostile machines. His "Protection Certificate" left no doubt as to the identity of the modest aerial warrior. "Still keen on flying, Mr. Trevear?" "Rather," replied the ex-airman with a sudden and unexpected burst of enthusiasm. "I wanted to stay in the R.A.F., but it was no go. Then I applied for a post as pilot at a civilian flying-school, but up to now I've heard nothing." "Do you know the 'Cormorant' sea-plane?" "Heard of it, sir," was the reply. "My buses were mono-airplanes, but I think I'd cotton on to a seaplane with very little difficulty." "Good enough," exclaimed Harborough. "A stout heart goes a long way. Willing to sign on, on the terms I mentioned?" "Rather," replied the now eager youth. "That's the lot," commented Sir Hugh, when Villiers and the baronet found themselves alone. "Quite a representative crush, eh? I think they'll shape all right. Now we'll pack up, Beverley and Claverhouse, and get back. There's plenty to be done in the next fortnight." CHAPTER V The "Fusi Yama" "At this stage of the proceedings, gentlemen," began Sir Hugh. "I think it time to reveal all I know concerning the _Fusi Yama_ and her cargo of sunken gold." It was the first time that the whole of the members of the Salvage Syndicate had assembled at Thalassa Towers, and what might be termed a meeting of the Board was in progress. The scene was the smoking-room, in which a roaring fire was blazing on the hearth, for the autumn morning was decidedly chilly. On the oaken table, and held down by four leaden weights, was an Admiralty Chart of a portion of the Pacific. "The _Fusi Yama_, a vessel of 4500 tons, was, you may remember," continued the baronet, "sold by a Japanese firm to a British shipping concern at Shanghai. There was rather a fuss made about it at the time, because in shipping circles it was regarded as somewhat significant that Japan had entered into commercial maritime competition to such an extent that she could build and engine vessels and sell them to a nation that hitherto held the palm for ship-construction. "This was just before the war, and the _Fusi Yama's_ first voyage under the British flag was from Chi-fu to Liverpool--but the voyage was never completed in the manner intended. Her cargo consisted of cotton and silk and specie and bullion to the value of a million and a half. "Strictly speaking, the bullion and specie ought to have been sent by a regular mail-steamer, but rumours were in the air of trouble
{'title': 'The Salving of the "Fusi Yama": A Post-War Story of the Sea by Percy F. Westerman', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}