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Updated: May 3, 2025
An hour later Hugh Maclean, the engineer, and the lesser officers and thirty-two men of the Saigon's company and some two score of Russian sailors were working like slaves transferring, under the supervision of a strong guard, the Saigon's coal and cargo into the Nevski's boats. Captain Brandon was not among the toilers.
Invisible hands unfolded and shook out three balls of bunting at the truck of the war-ship's signal boom. They fluttered for awhile, and then spread out to the breeze. The arms of Russia surmounted two lines of symbolic letters. "Quartermaster!" shouted Captain Brandon. "Ay, ay, sir!" rang out a sailor's voice, and the Saigon's number raced a Union Jack to the mast-head.
Maclean changed coats and caps with the insensible Russian engineer, while Sievers called the Saigon's men from below. He then strapped on the man's dirk, and put his revolver in his pocket. "What next?" asked Sievers. Maclean glanced at the engine-room clock. The hands pointed to seven-fifteen. "Captain and officers are just about half through their dinner," he reflected.
The darkness renewed itself a second later, and for some time the hold buzzed with the noise of crunching jaws and guttural exclamations. Of a sudden someone near him struck a match, and Maclean looked over the flame into the eyes of Robert Sievers, the Saigon's chief engineer. "Hello, Mac," said Sievers. "Good evening, Sievers," replied Maclean politely. "We're still at anchor."
He glanced at the begrimed faces of the Saigon's wild and ghastly looking company, and beyond them for a moment, then stumbled over the coal, followed by Sievers, until he was brought up by the iron partition of the hold. He made, however, straight for the bulkhead, and stooping down, held the candle close to the line of bolts covering the propeller's tunnel. "By Jingo!" cried Sievers.
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