Chapter XXXIX: Dacres' Promotion

WHEN Reno Durango recovered from the stupifying effects of the sulphur he found himself in a cabin destitute of furniture and securely locked and barred. He knew by the peculiar undulating motion that he was on board an airship. Then the truth flashed across his mind: he was in the hands of his rivals.

Rage and despair filled his heart. At one moment he thought of dashing his head against the metal bulkhead of the cabin; at another he contemplated putting an end to his existence and evading well-merited punishment by strangling himself. But his nerve failed him. Never backward in delighting to cause pain to the unfortunate wretches who had fallen into his hands at various times, he shrank from inflicting the slightest injury upon himself.

His frenzied thoughts were interrupted by the entry of Captain Whittinghame, Dacres, and Dr. Hambrough.

The Englishmen had not come to gloat over their captive; the doctor was there in his official capacity of surgeon of the "Meteor," while the others were there in case the Mexican should become violent.

"Well, my man, how do you feel now?" asked the doctor in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he were addressing a hospital patient.

Durango's reply was to roll his yellow eyes and thrust out his leathery under lip. He wanted to curse his captors, but blind rage held him speechless.

Deftly Dr. Hambrough took hold of his wrist. The Mexican, snarling like a wild beast, shook him off.

"I cannot do anything more for the patient at present," said the doctor suavely, and the three men turned to leave the prisoner to his own devices.

Just as Whittinghame, who was the last to leave, was backing out of the door--for he gave Durango no chance of making a sudden dash--the Mexican found his tongue.

"Curse you, Whittinghame!" he shouted with a torrent of oaths. "If I had thrown those plans overboard instead of stowing them in under the boat's fore-deck, I'd have the laugh of you yet."

Vaughan Whittinghame made no reply, but pushing Dacres across the threshold he closed and relocked the door.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed delightedly. "Durango's let the cat out of the bag. He imagines that we have already found the plans."

"Let's hope it won't be long before we do," rejoined the sub, and the three men hastened to search the hull of the flying-boat.

The "Meteor's" speed was materially reduced to enable the searchers to go on deck, where the boat was made fast to four strong ring-bolts.

Leaping over her coamings Dacres dived under the fore-deck. The place had already been cleared out, but on each side a skirting had been fastened to the ribs to within a foot of the deck-beams.

The sub thrust his hand into one of the spaces thus formed. He could feel nothing. The second gave no better result, but in the third his fingers came in contact with some moist paper.

Carefully withdrawing his band the sub found that he had recovered a bundle of documents tied with red tape. Although damp they were little the worse for their adventures in sea and air.

"Hurrah!" shouted Dacres. "We've discovered the object of our search, sir. Here are the submarine plans."

* * * * *

The great Naval Review at Spithead was over. On board H.M.S. "Foudroyant," the flagship of the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Hardy Staplers, a grand dinner was being held. The flag-officers and captains of the various divisions and ships, the principal military officers of the garrison of Portsmouth, and the heads of the Dockyard establishments were present.

After the customary loyal toast had been proposed and duly honoured, Sir Hardy rose to reply to the toast of The Navy.

The Commander-in-Chief was by no means a fluent speaker, but when he "warmed up" to his subject he lost all sense of time. His speech was practically a résumé of the vast strides that the British Navy had made during his lengthy career. At last he spoke of the Flying Wing:--

"Gentlemen, I need say but little more (the majority of his listeners heaved an inward sigh of relief). We now know of the sterling work performed by the subsidized airship 'Meteor.' When the time comes for that noble craft to be taken over by H.M. Government--and I venture to assert that the day is not far distant--our Flying Wing will have a unit that is second to none.

"It is a matter of regret that the 'Meteor' was not present at the memorable display at Spithead to-day. As all of you are no doubt aware the latest dispatches from Zandovar stated that the airship left in pursuit of the outlaw, Durango. A week has elapsed and no further news of her has been forthcoming. Personally, I do not think we need labour under any misapprehension as to her safety; but at the same time the silence--especially in this age of wireless--is somewhat inexplicable. An airship that could with safety undertake at short notice a successful dash to the North Pole (hear, hear!) can be relied upon to take care of herself. Therefore, I feel confident in expressing my opinion that before many hours have elapsed news will be received from the Senior Officers at Zandovar announcing the return of the Dreadnought of the Air from yet another successful mission.

"One more point I should like to mention, and that is the great changes in the near future in in engineering. I refer to the cordite motors as carried in the 'Meteor.' It is, of course, too early to predict with certainty that cordite will be the fuel used on our great battleships in place of oil, but to a great extent the era of the coal and oil-fed furnace is doomed."

Now, it so happened that amongst the guests was Engineer-Captain Camshaft, an engineering officer of the old school, who swore by triple-expansion engines, took ungraciously to turbine machinery, and scoffed at internal combustion engines. He was particularly scathing in his opinion of cordite as fuel for propulsion, and had offered to bet any of his brother-officers that the "Meteor" would never return to England under her own power. Perhaps he had had more champagne than was good for him; at anyrate, at this point of Sir Hardy's speech, he exclaimed in a "stage aside," "Question."

A deadly silence prevailed in the crowded ward-room. The protest was plainly audible, yet save for Camshaft's immediate neighbour, no one knew who had had the temerity to contradict the Commander-in-Chief.

"Did I hear some one say 'Question'?" asked Sir Hardy with his customary urbanity.

The culprit recognized that he had overstepped the bounds. It meant that his future career was in jeopardy, especially as it was freely mooted that Sir Hardy Staplers was shortly to be made First Sea Lord of the Admiralty.

Fortunately the engineer-captain was a man of resource in such matters.

"Beg pardon, Sir Hardy," he exclaimed thickly, "I said unquestionably--unquestionably."

A badly suppressed titter ran round the table. The situation was saved.

"Yes, of course," agreed the Commander-in-Chief blandly. "Now I quite understand; you said 'unquestionably', Captain Camshaft."

Before Sir Hardy could resume the thread of his lengthy discourse a voice on deck was heard hailing "Boat ahoy!"

Loud and clear came the reply that electrified every member of that convivial dinner-party:--

"Meteor!"

The Commander-in-Chief's speech was never finished. Following Sir Hardy's example the officers and their guests rushed upon the quarter-deck and crowded to the starboard guard-rails.

They were just in time to see a motor-boat of unusual design run alongside the accommodation-ladder. The glare of the electric lamps fell upon the bronzed features of Captain Vaughan Whittinghame and Sub-lieutenant Basil Dacres.

"How in the name of wonder!" exclaimed the astonished Commander-in-Chief.

"We've brought two-fifths of the original 'Meteor' back, sir," reported Whittinghame. "She's lying off the Warner Lightship. Our wireless is out of gear, or we would have reported our progress. Durango is a prisoner on board; and here, sir, are the plans of the 'M' class of submarines."

* * * * *

Shortly before lunch-time on the following morning Basil Dacres--specially promoted by virtue of an Order-in-Council to the rank of commander (Flying Squadron, Naval Wing) of His Majesty's Fleet--arrived at his father's country residence, Cranbury House.

"Governor in, Sparkes?" he asked as the footman opened the door and stared with amazement at the "young master." Years of training had steeled Sparkes to most shocks, but this time he was completely taken aback.

"Yes, Mr. Basil, Colonel Dacres has just come in. He's been out rabbit-shooting, sir."

"Then don't tell him who I am," cautioned Dacres. "Take in this card and say that someone wishes to see him."

Sparkes took the pasteboard and vanished. Half way up the stairs he paused to look at the card.

"Mr. Basil's up to some of his pranks, I'll be bound," he said to himself. "Hope to goodness the master doesn't jaw me for it."

"Gentleman to see you, sir," he announced.

Colonel Dacres took the card and read,

"Commander Basil Dacres, R.N."

"Commander Basil Dacres, R.N.," he repeated. "Wonder who the deuce he is? Some distant relation, I suppose, after something or the other. Sparkes, where's the Navy List?"

"You lent it to Admiral Padbury the morning before last, sir," replied the footman smartly.

"So I did, Sparkes, so I did. Never mind. I'll see this gentleman. Where is he, Sparkes?"

"In the green room, sir."

"What sort of a man is he?"

The footman coughed to clear his throat, and nearly broke a blood-vessel in striving to suppress a grin.

"Cannot say as how I took particular stock of him, sir; but he's a smartish-looking gentleman, sir."

"Then he must belong to our branch of the family," thought the colonel complacently. "But dash it all, what does he want to come just before tiffin for?"

Colonel Dacres waited to put a few finishing touches, then hastened downstairs to conceal, under a guise of cordiality, any traces of his annoyance at being disturbed before lunch.

To his unbounded astonishment he found himself confronted by his son, whom he supposed to be still on board H.M.S. "Royal Oak" off Zandovar. He could only come to one conclusion--a hastily formed one--on the situation: Basil had been in trouble, and had turned up, in spite of his parent's fiat, like a bad halfpenny.

"What's the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded, holding up the card. "Are there no limits to your senseless pranks? I had hoped when that Valderian business took place that you might have proved yourself worthy of the name of Dacres. Instead of that you turn up with a handle to your name to which you have no right. Explain yourself, sir."

"It's all right, dad," said the youthful commander coolly.

"But it isn't all right. I----"

"Steady on, pater! You've asked me a lot of questions; give me a chance to reply. In the first place there is a limit to my pranks, and I don't mean to exceed it. Secondly, I was in the Valderian affair; thirdly, I came home because the 'Meteor' brought me home; fourthly and lastly, I am really a commander in His Majesty's Fleet, my appointment being dated at the Admiralty yesterday."

"'Meteor?'" repeated the colonel. "You were on the 'Meteor'? I knew nothing of this."

"Naturally, sir. Our mission was a confidential one. Even Rear-Admiral Maynebrace was in ignorance of who formed her crew until we pulled him out of the Cavarale."

"Were you the officer who was reported to have distinguished himself in rescuing the Admiral, then?" asked Colonel Dacres amazedly.

"Yes, sir; but the newspaper reports may have been exaggerated. They often are," declared Dacres modestly. "But the fact remains that I am specially promoted, for which I have to thank Captain Whittinghame, who has been made Commandant of the Airship Section; the 'Meteor' is to undergo a hasty refit and reconstruction--we left three-fifths of her in different places, you know--and after that--well, we must hope for something fairly exciting to turn up. For the present I have three weeks' leave."

"Leave!" echoed the colonel. "Won't you have to give evidence at the trial of Durango?"

"Yes, I suppose so," replied the young commander. "He is to be indicted on a list of charges as long as my arm. However, I am not at all keen on that part of the business. Hunting him down was exciting enough, but now the rascal is laid by the heels I wish I could regard the incident as closed. After a turn at active service in the air a fellow doesn't want to descend to the stuffy atmosphere of the Law Courts. I want to be up and doing, in a double sense, pater; I feel as keen as mustard."

"Basil, my boy, I'm afraid I've misjudged you."

"I don't think so, pater; I believe that once or twice you've blamed me for practical jokes I didn't play, but that's a mere detail. The mater's teapot, for example."

"I don't mean in that way," continued the colonel. "I thought that you might let your chances slip through your fingers, but, by Jove! you're a true Dacres after all."

"Thank you, pater," said the young commander simply.

THE END

THE LONDON AND NORWICH PRESS LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH, ENGLAND

[Transcriber's note:

The original text contained a number of obvious spelling and
typographic errors. They have been corrected without note.
Inconsistent spellings and typographical errors have been preserved
as printed.

These are:
- "Chili" and "Chile" both occur
- "Equadorean" instead of "Equadorian"]

End of Project Gutenberg's The Dreadnought of the Air, by Percy F. Westerman