The Air Pirate
Thus you see me in London, two days after Thumbwood brought the
terrible news to my bedroom in the hotel at Plymouth.
General Sir Hercules Nichelson, Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Flying
Corps, had been with me for half an hour, and was just taking his leave.
"Then all that is satisfactorily arranged, Sir John," he said. "We shall
supplement your patrol ships with three war-ships at Plymouth and three
at the Scillies. They will, of course, be air cruisers, both faster and
better armed than your boats, and between us both we shall put an end to
this pest before many days are over."
"I sincerely trust so," I said. "And I do not see how it is possible
that there should be any further outrages. The net will be too close.
America, with its much greater coastal area, is taking extraordinary
precautions."
"It will be impossible for these devilish scoundrels to escape," the
General repeated with confidence--the onus of it all was not falling
upon _him!_--"and now, we quite understand one another."
"Perfectly, I think, Sir Hercules."
"Your chief station officer is to be in full command, under you, at each
air-port."
"It was your suggestion, Sir Hercules, and since it came from you, I do
think it would be best. My men are always patrolling the air-lines. The
organization is complete already."
"Exactly. And as for my fellows, they will be proud to serve under such
gallant and experienced officers as those of the A.P."
"It's kind of you to say so."
"Not at all. It is the truth. And now, as an older man, let me give you
a little advice, if I am not taking a liberty. Don't let this affect you
too much, Sir John. Every sane man knows that neither you nor anyone
else could have avoided what has happened, or have provided against it.
It is a great thing to have an acute sense of responsibility; I honour
you for it. But don't overdo it. I know the strain you are enduring.
Don't let it go too far. If you were to break down now, that would be a
final disaster...."
The kind, white-haired old man shook me warmly by the hand, and left the
room.
Almost immediately young Bickenhall, my private secretary, came in.
"Here is the morning's Press, sir," he said, and upon my table he put
down various columns cut from the journals of that morning--all dealing
with the sensational and terrible events on the Atlantic that were now
the common knowledge of the world.
I sat down to glance through them--I was keeping an iron grip upon
myself these times--in order to gauge public opinion. It occurs to me
that, in order to acquaint you with the progress of events from my
awakening at Plymouth till the morning of which I speak, I cannot do
better than quote a paragraph here and there from the daily papers. It
will bring us up to date more quickly and concisely than in any other
way.
This, then, from one of the leading London journals, a weighty, somewhat
ponderous sheet, with considerable influence:
"... We have given an account of the first attack upon the air-liner
_Albatros_, under command of Captain Pring, whose conduct in such a
trying situation did not deviate from the best traditions of our British
aviators. Most people would have thought that after such a dastardly
outrage, the unknown pirate would have been content to rest upon his
infamous laurels and retire to his lair, with the valuable booty he had
secured. But it was not so. With an audacity unparalleled in the annals
of crime, this vulture, on the very next night, commits an outrage
which, for ferocity and daring, makes the first one seem like a mere
frolic.
"It is now possible to disentangle something of the truth from the
various conflicting stories that have reached us, and it is, moreover,
confirmed in its essential details by the authorities of the Air Police
at Whitehall, who have issued a guarded statement.
"It appears that two nights ago the famous air-liner _Atlantis_ left
the Plymouth sea-drome about nine in the evening. The Captain, Commander
Pilot Swainson, was one of the best known and trusted officers in the
Transatlantic service. He did not anticipate the slightest danger. Sir
John Custance, Chief Commissioner of the Air Police of Great Britain,
was himself at Plymouth, having hurried down from London upon receiving
news of the first piracy. Sir John insisted that the _Atlantis_ should
be escorted, for half of her journey to America, by the armed Patrol
Ship '1,' under command of Superintendent Pilot-Commander Lashmar,
D.S.O., himself an officer of great distinction. Half-way across the
Atlantic the liner was to be met by a similar escort of the United
States A.P., and let us here say that it is difficult to tell what other
precautions Sir John Custance could have devised.
"The _Atlantis_ carried the Royal Mail and a full complement of
passengers, among whom were some distinguished names. Mr. Bootfeller, of
the United States Senate, Mr. Greenwell, the well-known publisher, the
Duke of Perth, and 'Walty Priest,' the cinema 'star,' were among the
men, while in the list of ladies was Miss Constance Shepherd, a young
actress, of whom it is not too much to say that she has endeared herself
to the British public.
"About two o'clock in the morning disastrous and terrible news began to
filter through to the Plymouth wireless stations. It can be summarized
as follows: When not more than two hundred and fifty miles west of
Ireland, the patrol ship, which was flying three miles or so behind the
_Atlantis_, was suddenly attacked by an unknown airship. The moon had
set, the ten-thousand-feet level was dark, and the attack was delivered
without the slightest warning. Patrol Ship No. 1 was instantly disabled
by a rain of shells. Captain Lashmar was shot dead, and with him
perished all of the crew except three men, one of whom was so seriously
wounded that his life is despaired of, the other two being only slightly
wounded.
"An utter wreck, the patrol ship was just able to descend to the water,
where she rested like a wounded and dying bird.
"Meanwhile the unknown ship caught up with the _Atlantis_ and
commenced--as in the case of the _Albatros_--with shooting away her
wireless aerials. The rudder and stern propeller were then destroyed,
and the great liner forced to plane to the surface of the water. Six
masked and armed ruffians went aboard of her, and a systematic looting
of the ship commenced. Captain Swainson could not bear this. He drew a
revolver and shot one of the pirates dead. Then, calling on his crew to
assist him, he made a determined rush, regardless of consequences. The
fight was unequal. Captain Swainson was the only defender who carried
fire-arms, while the robbers were provided with heavy automatic pistols.
"Five men of the _Atlantis_ were killed almost instantly, and the rest
cowed, while the systematic robbery continued. And now, alas! 'horrors
upon horror's head accumulate.' Their evil work completed, the ruffians
sought out Miss Constance Shepherd and her maid, Miss Wilson, from among
the passengers. These unfortunate ladies were forced at the pistol's
mouth to embark upon the pirates' small boat, in which they were rowed
rapidly to the pirate ship and taken on board. The ship then rose from
the water and was lost to sight.
"Meanwhile two heroes were at work. On board the broken patrol ship two
able navigators, Paget and Fowles, were wounded, indeed, but not
entirely disabled. Both men had some knowledge of wireless, and with
superhuman toil, as the hours went on, they contrived to rig up a
temporary apparatus which, at last, served to send out a brief account
of the disaster and a call for help.
"When rescue ships arrived at early dawn, they found that the patrol
ship had drifted close to the _Atlantis_, and that Dr. Weatherall, the
surgeon of the liner, had swum aboard the No. 1 and rendered what help
he could to the wounded men.
"Press representatives are at Plymouth, but, so far, few of the
passengers of the _Atlantis_ have been able, and none have been allowed
by the authorities, to make personal statements for publication. This
embargo, we are assured, will be removed by this evening.
"This is a precise account of what has happened. We must now turn to the
consideration of the situation...."
Another journal, a weekly one this time, headed its remarks with a
portrait of my unhappy self. Underneath was written: "The Man the
Atlantic Pirates tricked!" The rag had an immense circulation in all the
tap rooms of England.
Well, I would see what the blackguards of the country were reading about
me. Shrewd young Bickenhall wouldn't have brought the unclean thing in
if he hadn't thought it worth while. I give it for what it's worth:
"Poor Johnny Custance! You're up against it good and thick to-day, and
no mistake, and Paul Pry"--this was the signature of the tout who wrote
the article--"can't say he's very sorry for you. For some time past a
little bird has been whispering in the clubs that all is not well in the
State of Denmark--to wit, the office of the Commissioner of Air Police
at Whitehall. The aristocratic young gentlemen who daily condescend to
drop into this palatial edifice for an hour or two have long held the
reputation of being the best dressed of all our minor Government
officials, and, considering the salaries they draw from the public
purse, this is not surprising. But I have never yet heard that they did
any work worth mentioning, or, indeed, anything to justify their
precious and beautiful existence.
"Flying Police we must have, and never has the necessity for them been
greater than at this moment; but there is a vast deal of difference from
the handy pilot of a patrol ship at Plymouth or Portland and the
bureaucratic popinjays of Pall Mall.
"Sir John Custance, Bart., is the typical Government official of the
musical comedy or the comic paper. He is an aristocrat who, after a
short experience in the air, is shoved into the highly-paid and
responsible position he holds without any reason that the man in the
street can understand. A baronet, and, if report speaks truly, a man of
considerable private means, I have--in common with many other
people--often asked myself what possible qualification this young
gentleman can have for his job. Johnny is a most estimable person, no
doubt, in private life. I have heard it remarked that his moustache is
one of the most perfect things in the West End of London, and he is
frequently to be seen adorning a stall or box at the Parthenon Theatre.
But few people have ever taken him seriously as the head of our Air
Police, and now nobody will."
There was a row of stars here, as if Mr. Paul Pry paused for breath, or
was stopping to pick up another handful of mud, and then he went on
again:
"If the nation is called upon to pay thousands and thousands a year for
the upkeep of an efficient service of Air Police, it is entitled to see
that it gets it, and that the man in charge is able to provide it. What
has happened? A crew of murdering ruffians in an airship have looted two
of our greatest air-liners, slaughtered several people, kidnapped one of
our most popular actresses, and escaped scot-free. Vanished into the
wide! While Sir John Custance twiddles his thumbs in Whitehall and calls
upon the air forces of the Admiralty and War Office to supplement his
own miserably inefficient organization.
"As usual, we are not without some very special and exclusive
information in this office. My readers know from past experience that
their Paul is not easily caught napping. I believe that I shall have
something to say that will startle everyone in next week's number,
though, for certain reasons, I cannot be more explicit at present.
Before concluding these remarks, however, I must say a word or two about