“Five of us,” said the composed voice out of the night that seemed now darker than before. “Four hands and myself. We belong to a yacht—a British yacht—”
“Come on board!” shouted Lingard. “Why didn’t you speak at once? I thought you might have been some masquerading Dutchmen from a dodging gunboat.”
“Do I speak like a blamed Dutchman? Pull a stroke, boys—oars! Tend bow, John.”
The boat came alongside with a gentle knock, and a man’s shape began to climb at once up the brig’s side with a kind of ponderous agility. It poised itself for a moment on the rail to say down into the boat—“Sheer off a little, boys,” then jumped on deck with a thud, and said to Shaw who was coming aft: “Good evening … Captain, sir?”
“No. On the poop!” growled Shaw.
“Come up here. Come up,” called Lingard, impatiently.
The Malays had left their stations and stood clustered by the mainmast in a silent group. Not a word was spoken on the brig’s decks, while the stranger made his way to the waiting captain. Lingard saw approaching him a short, dapper man, who touched his cap and repeated his greeting in a cool drawl:
“Good evening … Captain, sir?”
“Yes, I am the master—what’s the matter? Adrift from your ship? Or what?”
“Adrift? No! We left her four days ago, and have been pulling that gig in a calm, nearly ever since. My men are done. So is the water. Lucky thing I sighted you.”
“You sighted me!” exclaimed Lingard. “When? What time?”
“Not in the dark, you may be sure. We’ve been knocking about amongst some islands to the southward, breaking our hearts tugging at the oars in one channel, then in another—trying to get clear. We got round an islet—a barren thing, in shape like a loaf of sugar—and I caught sight of a vessel a long way off. I took her bearing in a hurry and we buckled to; but another of them currents must have had hold of us, for it was a long time before we managed to clear that islet. I steered by the stars, and, by the Lord Harry, I began to think I had missed you somehow—because it must have been you I saw.”
“Yes, it must have been. We had nothing in sight all day,” assented Lingard. “Where’s your vessel?” he asked, eagerly.
“Hard and fast on middling soft mud—I should think about sixty miles from here. We are the second boat sent off for assistance. We parted company with the other on Tuesday. She must have passed to the northward of you today. The chief officer is in her with orders to make for Singapore. I am second, and was sent off toward the Straits here on the chance of falling in with some ship. I have a letter from the owner. Our gentry are tired of being stuck in the mud and wish for assistance.”
“What assistance did you expect to find down here?”
“The letter will tell you that. May I ask, Captain, for a little water for the chaps in my boat? And I myself would thank you for a drink. We haven’t had a mouthful since this afternoon. Our breaker leaked out somehow.”
“See to it, Mr. Shaw,” said Lingard. “Come down the cabin, Mr.—”
“Carter is my name.”
“Ah! Mr. Carter. Come down, come down,” went on Lingard, leading the way down the cabin stairs.
The steward had lighted the swinging lamp, and had put a decanter and bottles on the table. The cuddy looked cheerful, painted white, with gold mouldings round the panels. Opposite the curtained recess of the stern windows there was a sideboard with a marble top, and, above it, a looking-glass in a gilt frame. The semicircular couch round the stern had cushions of crimson plush. The table was covered with a black Indian tablecloth embroidered in vivid colours. Between the beams of the poop-deck were fitted racks for muskets, the barrels of which glinted in the light. There were twenty-four of them between the four beams. As many sword-bayonets of an old pattern encircled the polished teakwood of the rudder-casing with a double belt of brass and steel. All the doors of the staterooms had been taken off the hinges and only curtains closed the doorways. They seemed to be made of yellow Chinese silk, and fluttered all together, the four of them, as the two men entered the cuddy.
Carter took in all at a glance, but his eyes were arrested by a circular shield hung slanting above the brass hilts of the bayonets. On its red field, in relief and brightly gilt, was represented a sheaf of conventional thunderbolts darting down the middle between the two capitals T. L. Lingard examined his guest curiously. He saw a young man, but looking still more youthful, with a boyish smooth face much sunburnt, twinkling blue eyes, fair hair and a slight moustache. He noticed his arrested gaze.
“Ah, you’re looking at that thing. It’s a present from the builder of this brig. The best man that ever launched a craft. It’s supposed to be the ship’s name between my initials—flash of lightning—d’you see? The brig’s name is Lightning and mine is Lingard.”
“Very pretty thing that: shows the cabin off well,” murmured Carter, politely.
They drank, nodding at each other, and sat down.
“Now for the letter,” said Lingard.
Carter passed it over the table and looked about, while Lingard took the letter out of an open envelope, addressed to the commander of any British ship in
