The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
Then the volume was opened, the tables explained, the mysteries of ‘dip’ refraction and ‘parallax’ expounded, and finally an imaginary observation was worked out on the back of an envelope.
“I had no idea,” said Miss Burleigh, as she triumphantly finished the calculation, “that the science of navigation was so simple.”
“It isn’t,” replied Osmond. “Latitude by the meridian altitude of the sun is the A B C of navigation. Some of it, such as longitude by lunar distance, is fairly tough. But it is time we got on deck. It is past eleven by my watch and the Lord knows what the time actually is. The chronometer has stopped. The skipper bumped against it when he staggered into his berth on the day when the mutiny broke out.”
“Then how shall we get the longitude?” Miss Burleigh asked.
“We shan’t. But it doesn’t matter much. We must keep on a westerly course. There is nothing, in that direction, between us and America.”
The appearance on deck of the two officers, each armed with a sextant, created a profound impression. It is true that, so far as the ‘second mate’ was concerned, the attitude of the crew was merely that of respectful amusement. But the effect, in the case of Osmond, was very different. The evidence that he was able to ‘shoot the sun’ established him in their eyes as a pukka navigator, and added to the awe with which they regarded this uncannily capable ‘factory bug.’ And there was plenty of time for the impression to soak in; for the first glance through the sextant showed that the sun was still rising fairly fast; that there was yet some considerable time to run before noon. In fact, more than half an hour passed before the retardation of the sun’s motion heralded the critical phase. And at this moment the skipper’s head rose slowly above the hood of the companion-hatch.
At first his back was towards the observers, but when he emerged and, turning forward, became aware of them, he stopped short as if petrified. The men ceased their gossip to watch him with ecstatic grins, and Sam Winter edged stealthily towards the ship’s bell.
“What is the meaning of this play-acting and tom foolery?” the skipper demanded, sourly. “Women and landsmen monkeying about with nautical instruments.”
Osmond held up an admonitory hand, keeping his eye glued to the eyepiece of the sextant.
“I’m asking you a question,” the captain persisted. There was another brief silence. Then, suddenly, Osmond sang out “Eight bells!” and looked at his watch. Winter, seizing the lanyard that hung from the clapper of the bell, struck the eight strokes, and the second mate—prompted in a hoarse whisper—called out: “Port watch, there! Bradley will take the first trick at the wheel.”
“Aye, aye, sir—Miss, I means,” responded Bradley, and proceeded purple-faced and chuckling aloud, to relieve the gratified Simmons.
At these proceedings the captain looked on in helpless bewilderment. He watched Osmond wind and set the clock in the companion and saw him disappear below, followed by his accomplice, to work out the reckoning, and shook his head with mute disapproval. But yet to him, as to the rest of the ship’s company, there came a certain sense of relief. Osmond’s brisk, confident voice, the cheerful sound of the ship’s bell, and the orderly setting of the watch, seemed definitely to mark the end of the mutiny and the return to a reign of law and order.
CHAPTER VI
BETTY MAKES A DISCOVERY
For reasons best known to herself, Miss Burleigh made no further attempt that day to satisfy her curiosity as to the quelling of the mutiny. There was, in fact, little opportunity. For shortly after the mid-day meal—sea-pie and corned pork with biscuit—Osmond turned in regardless of the heat, to get a few hours’ sleep before beginning his long night vigil. But on the following day the captain was so far recovered as to be able to take the alternate watches—relieved to some extent in the daytime by the second mate—and this left ample time for Osmond to continue the education of his junior, which now extended from theoretical navigation to practical seamanship.
It was during the afternoon watch, when the two mates were seated on a couple of spare cases in the shadow of the main-sail, practising the working of splices on some oddments of rope, that the ‘examination-in-chief’ began; and Osmond, recognizing the hopelessness of further evasion, was fain to tell the story of his adventure, dryly enough, indeed, but in fairly satisfying detail. And as he narrated, in jerky, colourless sentences, with his eyes riveted on the splice that he was working, his spellbound listener let her rope’s-end and marlinspike lie idle on her lap while she watched his impassive face with something more than mere attention.
“I wonder,” she said when the tale was told, “whether the men realize who the spectre mate really was.”
“I don’t think they can quite make out what happened. But I fancy they look upon me as something rather uncanny; which is all for the best, seeing how short we are and what a helpless worm the skipper is.”
“Yes, they certainly have a holy fear of you,” she agreed, smiling at the grim, preoccupied face. She reflected awhile and then continued: “But I don’t quite understand what brought you on board. You say that Dhoody had stolen those cases of gin. But what business was that of yours?”
“It was my gin.”
“Your gin? But you don’t drink gin.”
“No, I sell it. I am a trader. I run a store, or factory, as they call it out here.”
As Osmond made this statement, her look of undisguised admiration changed to one of amazement. She smothered an exclamation and managed to convert it at short notice into an unconcerned “I see,” but her astonishment extinguished her powers of conversation for the time being. She could only gaze at him and marvel at the incongruity of his personality with his vocation. She had encountered a good many traders, and though she had realized that the ‘palm-oil ruffian’ was largely the invention of the missionary and the official snob and that West African traders are a singularly heterogeneous body, still that body did not ordinarily include men of Osmond’s class. And her sly suggestion of his connection with Oxford had been something more than a mere random shot. There are certain little tricks of speech and manner by which members of the ancient universities can usually be recognized, especially by their contemporaries and though Osmond was entirely free from the deliberate affectations of a certain type of ‘’varsity’ man, her quick ear had detected one or two turns of phrase that seemed familiar. And he had not repudiated the suggestion.
“I wonder,” she said, after an interval of some what uncomfortable silence, “what made you take to trading. The métier doesn’t seem to fit you very well.”
“No,” he admitted with a grim smile; “I am a bit of a mug at a business deal.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she rejoined hastily. “But there are such a lot of things that would suit you better. It is a sin for a man of your class and attainments to be keeping a shop—for that is what it amounts to.”
“That is what it actually is,” said he.
“Yes. But why on earth do you do it?”
“Must do something, you know,” he replied, lamely.
“Of course you must, but it should be something suitable, and selling gin is not a suitable occupation for a gentleman. And it isn’t as if you were a ‘lost dog.’ You are really extremely capable.”
“Yes,” he admitted with a grin, “I’m pretty handy in a scrum.”
“Don’t be silly,” she admonished, severely. “I don’t undervalue your courage and strength—I shouldn’t be a natural woman if I did—but I am thinking of your resourcefulness and ingenuity. It wasn’t by mere thumping that you got your ascendancy over the men. You beat them by sheer brains.”
“Jim Darker thinks it was an iron belaying-pin.”
“Now don’t quibble and prevaricate. You know as well as I do that, if it had been a matter of mere strength and courage, you would never have got out