A Lively Bit of the Front Part 12

"We told him a lot--more than we ought to have done," remarked Malcolm. "Of course we didn't know."

"And then I suppose," added Fortescue, "he thought we might report the matter, and so he switched us off on a branch line, so to speak.

We'll let it go at that, but it wouldn't be a bad move to wait outside the orderly-room after those fellows have gone in and play the eavesdropper. If our Muizenberg pal is marched off under escort, then we needn't trouble further in the matter. If he gets off, then we'll tackle him and ask him for an explanation."

Acting upon this suggestion, the three chums made their way along the alley-way until they came to the orderly-room door. The Afrikanders were already within. Outside stood a "Tommy" sergeant as part of the escort.

"Want to go through the hoop again, you chaps?" enquired the N.C.O., with a grin.

"Not much--only curious," replied Fortescue, who had met the non-com. before on several occasions. "We'll _imps.h.i.+e_--hook it, you know--when they clear the court."

Listening, the three chums could hear the stern tones of the Major and the ba.s.s voice of the interpreter, for several of the South Africans spoke nothing but Taal--a dialect comprised largely of Dutch, with a sprinkling of Zulu and Kaffir words.

"That's our man," whispered Malcolm.

"The blighter's yapping in Dutch," announced Fortescue, "and he can speak English perfectly. Hallo!"

A torrent of words, plainly indicating indignant denials, wafted through the closed door. Several of the Afrikanders were speaking at once. A revolver-shot rang out, a sharp exclamation of pain, and then a tremendous scuffling.

"Come on, boys!" ordered the Sergeant, addressing the men of the escort waiting without.

The door was thrown open. The Tommies rushed in, while at their heels came Fortescue, Selwyn, and Carr. Their resolution to remain pa.s.sive and unseen witnesses had vanished into thin air.

Within all was confusion. The Major lay with his head and shoulders resting upon the table. Two of the other officers were endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed from his forehead. In one corner of the room a crowd of Afrikanders swayed in a compact ma.s.s, as if eager to wreak their vengeance on someone, while held like a rat in the jaws of a terrier was the man from Muizenberg, his captor being Jan van Eindhovengen.

"Give him to us, Jan!" shouted a dozen angry voices. "We know what to do with the rogue."

With difficulty the furious Afrikanders were calmed. The spy, his features pale with terror, was removed under a strong guard, while the wounded officer was carried to the sick quarters.

It was not until the afternoon that Oom Jan told Fortescue of what had occurred. Already strange rumours of varying degrees of accuracy had floated round the s.h.i.+p, but it was unanimously agreed that van Eindhovengen was the hero of the hour.

The spy had contrived to join the draft at Cape Town under the name of Pieter Waas. The real Pieter Waas happened to be a stranger to the rest of the Afrikanders, and, induced to desert by spy, had considerately transferred his name to his doubtful benefactor.

At the court of enquiry the pseudo Waas denied all knowledge of the pocket-book, although van Eindhovengen had seen the man with it in his possession without knowing its sinister import. It was not until it was explained to the Afrikanders that the ownerless book was a means by which they might be sent to the bottom of the sea by a hostile submarine that Oom Jan "rounded" on the spy. At first the fellow strenuously contradicted van Eindhovengen's accusation, but the big Afrikander would not be gainsaid. Suddenly the suspect whipped out a small automatic pistol. Whether it was with the intention of taking his own life or that of his accuser he himself only knew.

Like a flash van Eindhovengen's hand shot out. His powerful fingers gripped the spy's wrist as in a vice. As the pistol dropped from the fellow's limp hand the weapon went off, a bullet grazing the head of the president of the court of enquiry, and rendering him insensible.

"And now," concluded Oom Jan, "the spy is under lock and key. He is a slim _smous_ = rascal (Cape Dutch), but, Allemachte, it is all over with him. Presently, after he has set foot on dry land, a dozen bullets will bid him _Hambla gachle_. It is a too fitting end to a spy."

"But he hasn't been tried and sentenced yet," remarked Fortescue.

The Afrikander's face fell.

"Surely he is guilty," he said. "Why then waste time over him?"

"It is the Englishman's proud boast that every prisoner shall be given a fair trial," explained Fortescue. "It will be general court martial, no doubt. Thank goodness we New Zealanders are not mixed up in the business. By the by, Malcolm, have you any idea when we arrive at Plymouth? It seems to me that we've been dodging across the Atlantic half a dozen times."

"This is the twenty-eighth day of the voyage," observed Malcolm. "I heard that when the _Pomfret Castle_ was on the ordinary mail service she did the trip in fourteen as regular as clockwork."

"There's one thing, the boys will be snugly in camp by this time and waiting for us," added Selwyn. "We've missed the rotten 'shaking down' process. I wonder what sort of a show Codford is like?"

"You'll find out in due course," replied Fortescue grimly. "I've had some; enough of Salisbury Plain for me, thank you."

"We're not there yet," Malcolm reminded him.

Fortescue looked fixedly at the expanse of sea over which the twilight was spreading. Already the grey outline of the convoying cruiser was blending into invisibility against the gathering mantle of night.

"'That's so," he agreed solemnly.

CHAPTER XII

Running the Gauntlet

"Land in sight!"

The welcome announcement resulted in a rush on deck on the part of the motley throng of Anzacs, South Africans, English troops, and Maoris. Some men eager for a glimpse of the country of their birth, which they had not seen for many a long-drawn month of campaigning in the inhospitable waste of Mesopotamia; others for the first sight of the Mother Country; others out of mere curiosity; while the Maoris peered through the dim light to feast upon the prospects of speedily setting foot on dry land.

It was not much to look at, judged from a strictly optical point of view. Merely a slender lighthouse, rearing itself itself out of the sea, while miles beyond it, and just visible against the pale rosy tints of dawn, was a line of dark-grey cliffs, backed by higher ground that was totally dest.i.tute of trees.

The _Pomfret Castle_ and the rest of the convoy had slowed down in the vicinity of the Wolf Rock Lighthouse. The attendant cruiser was circling round at top speed, as if to shepherd her flock before entrusting them to the care of another. Against the line of cliffs could be discerned a haze of smoke, Out of which appeared a number of indistinct dots that quickly resolved themselves into a flotilla of destroyers.

In double-column line ahead the greyhounds of the sea tore to meet the approaching troops.h.i.+ps, then, at a signal from the senior officer, the destroyers "broke line", tearing hither and thither seemingly without order or reason--zigzagging, pirouetting, and crossing each others' bows as if partic.i.p.ating in an intricate maritime dance.

"Putting the wind up any blessed U-boat that might be wanting to b.u.t.t in," exclaimed Kennedy. "Hallo! There's our cruiser off. She's done with us."

The transports dipped ensigns; the cruiser returned the compliment in a similar manner as she swung round and retraced her course. Her mission accomplished, she set off on particular service to escort another convoy from somewhere to somewhere else, while the destroyers closed round the _Pomfret Castle_ and her consorts as if to welcome them into port.

For the most part the men ignored the call to breakfast. They had a different feast on hand--to feast their eyes upon the varying outlines of the rugged Cornish coast; for as the distance decreased the monotonous aspect gave place to one of intense interest.

"There's Rame Head," exclaimed a delighted Tommy. "Many a time I've stood on top of it. I was born an' bred at Cawsand," he added, gratuitously. "Just round the corner you'll see Plymouth."

"I've seen it three times before," remarked another--the inevitable grouser of the company; "and, every time it's been raining cats and dogs. Proper wet 'ole, I calls it."

"Let it, and a jolly good job too," rejoined the first speaker.

"After Mesopotamia you won't hear men grumbling about rain--not 'arf. It can rain every day in the year, an' good luck to it."

"Just you wait till you gets ter France," chipped in another. "Up to yer neck in mud an' slush. You'll jolly soon wish yourself grilling again."

"You've turned your back on Mesopotamia, boys," exclaimed the licensed jester of the company. "Now you've the Mess-up-at-homia, an' so make the best of it. Blimy, wot's this comin'; a bloomin'

Zeppelin!"

"Where?" exclaimed a dozen voices.

Following the direction of the speaker's outstretched hand Malcolm had his first view of an airs.h.i.+p. It was not a large craft as airs.h.i.+ps go. Underneath its silver-grey envelope hung a small car like the fuselage of an aeroplane. As it approached, the whirring circle of a single, two-bladed propeller could be discerned. It was a "Blimp", or dirigible observation balloon.