Officer And Man

“Quite, sir, I assure you. I have done my duty and–”

“Good-day, sir. You will just have time to get into your boat and get ashore while we are in smooth water, and before we start the engines.”

The Admiral did not seem to notice the little fat man’s outstretched hand. The secretary bowed him out of the cabin, holding the photograph in one hand and his notebook in the other. Neither of them liked his look well enough to shake hands with him.

The Admiral, however, did not give the order to start the engines immediately, for the sentry, in accordance with orders received from the secretary, waited till Mr. Obadiah Howlman was at the foot of the accommodation-ladder, and then called out, “Hold on that boat a minute or two; the Admiral wants to send a letter ashore.”

For twenty minutes Mr. Howlman waited impatiently in the boat, and then a big, official-looking letter was handed down the ladder to the boatman, addressed: “O.H.M.S.—Commander Arness, H.M.S. Spitfire care of H.B.M. Consul, Levuka, Fiji.”

Mr. Howlman smiled to himself with the satisfied air of a man who has done his duty. He knew the contents of the letter, and recognised through its envelope the hard cardboard of the photograph of George Barcom enclosed therein. There was also a smaller note, addressed to Commander Arness by name, and marked, “Private letter.”

Five minutes later the Hannibal steamed through the passage, and shaped a course for Sydney.

The Spitfire was steaming full speed E.S.E. from Levuka. On the bridge was Commander Arness talking to the navigating lieutenant, a young and almost effeminate-looking officer.

The land had just been sighted, and lay right ahead.

“Will there be daylight enough left for us to get there and have this wretched thing over, Carteret?” asked Commander Arness.

“Plenty, sir, if this weather keeps up and you don’t want to stay there more than a couple of hours.”

“No. Two hours should be ample time. This letter from Hayling explains the whole business,” and he handed, the lieutenant the despatch from the Admiral’s secretary, which duly set forth that the Spitfire was to take on board a certain white trader living on Anuda—otherwise, Cherry Island—and bring him prisoner to Sydney. His wife was to be returned to her father at Niuafou. The last paragraph in the letter was to this effect—

“Be careful to identify beyond doubt this alleged deserter. The Rear-Admiral has received this information at the instant of sailing, and he is by no means certain that the statements of his informant can be depended upon. A photograph of the reputed deserter is enclosed herewith. The Admiral thinks that Mr. Carteret may know the man, as he was serving in the Flycatcher five years ago.”

“This rascal Howlman has informed upon the poor devil for spite,” said the Commander; “here’s a private note from Hayling to myself about the fellow.”

The lieutenant took the note and read—

“My dear Arness,—Just a line on my own account. Be careful what you are doing in this business. The fellow who informed is a sort of hanger-on to the missionaries here. They don’t think much of him, but seem to put up with the swab as a necessary evil. He confessed that jealousy had something to do with the matter, and I could see the Admiral wanted to kick him out of the cabin. Make sure that this man Barcom is a deserter, or there will be the devil to pay if he should prove to be an American citizen, or anything of that kind.—Yours, CHARLES Hayling.”

“You see why they have left the matter to us, Carteret. You were on the Flycatcher five years ago, and the Admiral thinks you may be able to identify this fellow. Of course Barcom is not his name.”

Mr. Carteret at this moment was very busy with the chart, over which he bent his head a moment, and then turned sharply to the man at the wheel, who was not out of earshot.

“Keep your course,” he said sharply; “why don’t you attend to your steering!” Then he turned to the commander: “I beg your pardon, sir; you were saying?–”

“I was saying that you ought to remember such an incident as a sergeant of marines deserting from the Flycatcher when she was down here five years ago.”

“I do remember it. The man’s name was Charles Parker.”

“Is that the man?” And Arness handed him a photograph of a man dressed in white ducks and a straw hat, evidently taken by an amateur.

Carteret looked at the photograph for fully a couple of minutes before he answered slowly—

“No, I don’t think that this is the man.”

A few hours later the Spitfire had steamed in close to the land, and a boat was lowered. In this boat were Lieutenant Carteret, a sergeant of marines, with three privates and half a dozen bluejackets.

“I have force enough to take a boat-load of deserters,” remarked the lieutenant to his commander, as he descended the poop ladder on his way to the boat.

Commander Arness laughed. “Oh, well, you know the natives might take it into their heads to resist his arrest. But be careful what you are doing: make perfectly sure that he is the man. You don’t know what complications might arise if we carried off the wrong person.”

The moment the boat touched the shore, she was surrounded by a crowd of friendly, brown-skinned islanders, who seemed delighted to see the strangers.

“Any one of you fellows speak English?” asked Mr. Carteret

“Yes, sir,” and a big, burly fellow with a fine open countenance advanced to the officer. “Me speak English, and plenty more men here speak it, too. What you want, sir?”

“Any white men living here?” asked Carteret quietly.

“Oh, yes—one, a very good man; his name is Joajai” [George].

“Take me to his house,” said the officer. “I want to see him.”

In a few minutes Mr. Carteret and his marines were being conducted up a steep and rugged path towards the white trader’s house, which was situated quite apart from the native village, while the bluejackets were left in the boat, remarking to each other that this white man was a most cursed unfriendly sort of a chap not to come down to the beach when he saw a man-of-war’s boat ashore.