NIGHT TIDE

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20485, 11 December 1934, Page 14

NIGHT TIDE

(Author of “The Mysterious Masquerade,” etc.

CHAPTER XXIII. 1 I’m Your Father.”

Captain John Macadam heard the throb of the engines beneath his feet, and the experience thrilled him. It thrilled every fibre of his consciousness; brought back swift memories of the old days—days that sometimes had seemed so very far back along the road of life. The touch of the engineroom telegraph made his hands tingle, and in front of him as he stood on the bridge there was the broad sweep of the river like a great black fan, diamond-slashed where the light reflections of ships riding calmly at anchor stabbed the pattern. Macadam felt that life was worth living once again. This was the real thing. The ship under him felt vibrant with life; responsive to his every touch on the telegraph. He was master again, and the ship and the men that sailed her were his servants. , If Macadam had been true to himself; had lie ever analysed himself with penetration similar to that which he so often brought to bear on other matters, he might have realised it was not perhaps the sea so much that mattered to him as the sense of power which his position commanded. No doubt in hi 3 early days there had grown up within him a reverence for the sea; perhaps he had been able then to appreciate its magical moments, but with the development of his maturity and his advancement in the social scale of his seafaring career, lie had lost touch with the poetry of it and worshipped only the power. The hand of power gripped him tonight as the Corsair rode downstream towards the bar of the river. Possessing a pilot’s certificate there was no occasion for Macadam to have a river navigator abroad. Macadam knew the Mersey currents as he knew the lines on his hands, and he had kept himself fully conversant with the changing habits of the treacherous banks of sand that mounted and moved in the mouth of the Mersey River. Behind him stood the helmsman, obeying each of Macadam’s terse instructions. In a few minutes Macadam felt that the presence of- the helmsman was redundant. It irritated him to think that he was not alone on the bridge of this ship because, perhaps, it ■would be the last time he would ever have this glorious opportunity of taking a ship out from Liverpool, and he wanted the recollection of this night to remain a vivid tint in his memory for all the years that were still to be left to him. He appreciated that it was not usual for the master to remain unattended on the bridge during the navigation down the river, but the urge was strong in him. It represented the acme of that power which he had for jears been calling the magical lure of the sea. Determined to achieve his ambition, Macadam turned to the man at the wheel. “I think I’d better take over the wheel, Smith,” he explained; “there may be a nasty cro S s-sea running beyond the point, and Iye been accustomed to taking my ships out my own wav eingle-handed.” The man at the wheel had long held “r in a ,. niaxlm that the skipper of a amp the wrong person with whom to stait an argument. In any event he recoii ee t ed that there was an intriguing game of poker m progress below, despite must r< hoid “f,,* 16 c . a P tain tha t al! hands must hold themselves in readiness for duty until dismissed. ‘‘ s ure you’il be all right, Cap’n ?” inquired Smith, realising that if Macadam was the type of man he had judged him to be the question was the easiest dut 10d ° f abandonin S his helmsman's ,‘V U tjs?* as rain .” growled Macadam. i U call the engine room should I want assistance.” The man disappeared without argument. He slid down the iron ladder°to the deck with accustomed ease and immediately disappeared into the ’warm atmosphere below. Macadam consulted his compass, and slightly adjusted the direction of the vessel. The engines purred with welloiled contentment. The captain was well satisfied with himself. Jlie Corsair was making good progress, and Macadam pulled his pipe from his pocket and filled the blackened bowl. As soon as they had got beyond the bar and everything was plain sailing he would send for Smith and retire to his cabin for a well-earned drink. He was gazing into the night beyond him when his attention was attracted by a sound on the ladder side of the budge. With a frown of annoyance he turned and saw a man standing motionless at the top of the ladder. “I told you I’d send if I wanted you ” he ground out the words with annoyance. The man did not speak, and Macadam moved forward, swinging the swivel ol the electric light beside the compass a half turn so that the beam was brought on to the intruder. Macadam halted and blinked his eyes, for the man who stood there, hesitant* was John Macadam, his son. For a moment the captain was uncertain of his senses. Swiftly lie wondered whether this was a dream—a hallucination. “John!” • Macadam’s voice was a whisper and very hoarse. Slowly, like a man in a dream, he moved forward and put out his hands for evidence of his senses. “It’s all right, father,” he heard John’s voice. “I’m real enough.” “What are you doing here—on this ship?” There was still an uncertain note in the captain’s voice. “I’ll answer that by asking the same question of you.” Macadam’s temper began to flame, but he smothered the fire quickly. “I’m taking this ship round to Cork for her owners,” came the reply. “I’ll say you’re not!” John spoke almost breathlessly, but there was an edge to the young man’s voice that startled his father. John moved closer and looked into his father’s rugged face, and before the captain had recovered from his amazement John continued. “Do you know what you’re doing, father? D’you know what cargo you’re carrying? When you’ve answered those questions I’ll know what the next move will be.” Macadam felt suddenly limp. For the past week he had visualised his first

A ROMANTIC STORY OF A GREAT SEAPORT

——*— I By I n ‘VIII 1 nn'!‘

J. R. WILMOT

meeting with his son many times, but none of them had been like this. He had pictured himself in the role of the forbidding parent, and again as the parent willing, perhaps, to forget the past and to think only of the future. But John Macadam had changed. He spoke with a confidence that made Macadam quail. There was a purpose and a direction behind John’s words and his questions that were almost imperative. “I know what I’m doing, right enough,” the old man answered. “And I know what I’ve been told about the cargo—at least I know what I’ve signed for,” he amended, cautiously. 4# But what’s that got to do with vour being here?” he demanded. “You’re not on the crew list.” “Nor on the passenger list, either,” said John, with a bite of irony. “If you want to know the truth—and you've got to know that —I’m at the moment an escaped prisoner, shanghaied from Liverpool in a modern manner, if you like; and you’re skipper of a ship that’s as near "a floating arsenal as makes little matter. Now do you get me?” Macadam felt limp. “Escaped prisoner,” “floating arsenal,” the boy must be raving. “Are you mad?” he asked, pressing his lined face forward until it nearly touched his son's. “Not so mad as you if you take this hulk out,” exclaimed John, his eyes aflame. “I’m not going to have it said that Robert Macadam was hoodwinked into running the gauntlet of the law for any American crook —not while his son is here to stand by and let him. Now do you understand?” Captain Macadam did not understand, DUt all the same he was conscious of a terrible fear gnawing at liis heart. A fusillade of questions was being fired into the target of his mind.

“Listen, my boy, I’ve got to get this thing straight. I’ll begin by admitting that I don't know overmuch about Blake or about the crew of this ship.” Macadam took John by the arm and they moved back behind the wheel in the shelter of the wlieelhouse. ‘’But I’m thinking that it’s you has got to do some explaining.” Rapidly, eliminating all unessential details. John Macadam told his father the strangest story tlie captain ever remembered having heard. John’s words —each one of them a terrible blow to his pride—staggered him. “The swine,” hissed Macadam. “I’ll get even with him. I’ll wireless the police at Liverpool and they’ll have people waiting at Cork. I’ll show them they can’t fool Macadam.” “Not so fast,” whispered John, “who’s going to do the radio work ? I can’t and you can’t. Don’t you realise that this ship’s manned with a crew that shoot on sight? I’ll bet the wireless operator’s got a gun parked handy, too. No, I’ve a better plan than that. You'll not be taking her to Cork, I reckon. \ ou’re going to run her aground on one of the banks, and we’ll have to trust to getting off somehow before that happens. She’ll be safe stuck into that sand, and if she breaks her cursed back that doesn t matter. Good riddance to her and to every one of the scum. Macadam’s face had gone as white as. the canvas that lined the bridge. “I can’t do it, John! I can't do it! I’ve never lost a ship yet in forty years as master. I’m not .going to do it to-night. There must be another way if only we could think of it.” “There’s no other way, I tell you,” John's voice trembled with anger/ “If you don’t do it ... I will,” he intimated, with a grim finality. “I’ll remind you that I’m master here!” There was a dangerouslv iev edge to the old man’s voice. “I’ll have no interference even from my own son.” “You’re a fool,” hissed John. “You’re forgetting that it won’t be long before that swine below begins to remember something. He’ll play merry hell and then we’ll have the others at our heels like a pack of snarling wolves, I know. I’ve seen ’em. You may reach Cork all right, but it won’t be as skipper. You'll be as full of holes as a cinder riddle. And what'll happen after that? A message will be sent from Cork that you’re taking the ship round to Morocco. That’s what Shirley will be told. After that there'll be silence ... a Ion", uncomfortable silence for us all.” John paused and an ugly look glinted in his eyes. “Does Shirley know this friend I Blake?” Macadam nodded. “I’d bemin 1 to figure it out that way. Blake knows I all about us. That’s a cinch. And I you’ve left Shirley to him. You know what that means/1 suppose? And then you talk about your honour and your

conscience. See here, this hulk’s going aground, if I have to do it with this,” and John whipped the revolver from his pocket and pointed it at his father. “What’s it going to be?” Macadam fell back before the muzzle of the gun held firmly in his son's hand. He felt limp and useless. “You’re threatening me?” he faltered, weakly.' “Remember I’m your father, and you're . . . my eon.” “This is no time for cheap sentiment,” John reminded him, slipping tlie weapon back again into his pocket. “We’ve got to forget relationship. We’ve got to remember that tlie stuff aboard this boat may be for the use of the enemies of Britain.” He saw his father start suddenly. “That’s better,” he went on. “I’d an idea you’d forgotten that. Now. does your reputation matter a damn?'’ Macadam stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m with you my boy. You’ve changed since last we met. You’ve got guts. I don’t take her to Cork. She’s going aground, and the quicker the bet ter.” Father and son shook hands in silence. (To be continued daily.)