OUTWARD BOUND
Upon the morning after the _Pelican_ stood out of the Lion's Gate and
headed southward, she was outside Cape Flattery and standing off to
the northwest, bucking and pitching and leaning over under a stiff
blow from the westward.
Captain Pontifex, although on this cruise he carried no third mate,
adhered to the custom of whaling skippers and stood no watches
himself except at times of necessity. On this fine morning, however,
he was on the quarter-deck, talking with black Manuel Mendez. The
steward approached them gingerly, for he was rather seasick.
"Well?" snapped the skipper. "How are they? Do they know we're at
sea?"
"Yes, sir, they seem to, sir," returned the Cockney. "Mr. Dennis is
wery sick, sir. The lady, sir, is not."
"Taking care of him, is she?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, steward, you give them my compliments, and say that I expect
them to appear in the saloon cabin at four bells sharp."
"Yes, sir."
"And, steward! You might ask the Missus for a bit of raw blubber.
Eat it raw, steward, and it'll cure what's ailing you. fat whale
blubber----"
"Yes, sir," said the steward faintly, his cheeks turning green. He
fled in haste.
Black Mendez grinned delightedly. "Dey'll be no good for fight,
Cap'n."
The skipper merely laughed in his throat, and strode to the companion
way. He had changed overnight. No longer was he under the shadow of
the land, under the hand of port and civil and military authorities!
No longer was he among the meshes of mankind's net! Here he was the
master. Here he was authority ultimate and supreme. Here, on the
high seas, his word, and his alone, was law. He only dictated; all
others obeyed! He was the skipper. He was absolute.
Something of all this showed in his eyes as he went below. At the
foot of the ladder he met the Missus, rock-like and indomitable. She
looked into his eyes and shrank slightly.
"At four bells," said Captain Pontifex curtly. "In the cabin--with
him."
She nodded and looked after him as he swung away aft. She was afraid
of him, but she was proud of him--was she not his woman? She, of
whom all others aboard the _Pelican_ were in dread, stood in fear of
the skipper.
Captain Pontifex passed into the saloon at the stern, where the
helpless Miles Hathaway sat in his chair beside the screwed-down cot
that served him as a bunk. Despite the hardness and the harshness
and the terror of the Missus' life, she was after all a woman; the
cabin ports were curtained with flowered chintz, the big gun-rack and
the little bookcase were also curtained; in the corner near the stern
ports was a heavy tea-jar lashed to the deck, in which blossomed a
huge scarlet geranium plant. This geranium was the pride and joy of
the Missus, and the envy and admiration of all visiting whaling
skippers.
The skipper pulled up a chair in front of Miles Hathaway, stuffed
tobacco into his pipe, struck a match and, through the ensuing cloud
of smoke, fastened his keen dark eyes upon the staring gaze of the
paralytic.
"Well," he observed, "I've got 'em, haven't I? Bit of a surprise,
eh?"
It seemed as though some fearful inner convulsion swept over the
helpless man. His mouth opened slightly; his eyelids jerked. But he
could not speak.
Pontifex laughed. "Told you I'd make you talk, didn't I? We're off
to sea at last, Cap'n, and I've got her aboard. Also, her
husband--she'll be a widow early, won't she? That is, if you're
still stubborn. Well, I told you that I expected to go Dumas _père_
one better, by the aid of modern science; but, my dear Miles, we must
continue to stick to the old novelist a little while. So you'll
kindly answer in the usual way when I ask questions."
For a moment Pontifex puffed at his pipe. Then he took from the
table another pipe, filled it with tobacco, lighted it, and placed it
between the teeth of Hathaway.
"Now we'll have a friendly little chat over our 'baccy, eh? Real old
sailormen, eh?" He chuckled with horrible mockery. "At four bells,
Cap'n, they'll come in here and we'll hold a meeting of the
directorate. The Hathaway Salvage Company--how's that, eh? Sorry
you're out of it. Do you remember that time in Vladivostok, when you
met me on the street and cursed me back and forth for marooning those
deserters on an ice-floe? Well, I told you then that I'd get even,
Miles. And now--_she_ is at sea with me! Good joke, eh?"
The subtle horror-gleam in the eyes of Miles Hathaway was
intensified. His massive face purpled, then paled again under its
stubble of whitish beard.
"Bo'sun Joe slipped up in letting her get married," pursued Pontifex.
"But we'll need her signature and that of her husband--or we'll so
tell them. Savvy, Miles? We'll tell 'em that; we'll make it
convincing, too. We'll make 'em quite certain that what we want is
their signatures and their help. But you know better, Miles!
"Yes, you know better. You know that I had to get the girl in order
to make you talk, blast you! That's why I spent money getting her.
That's why I got her. As for Dennis, we'll get rid of him later. He
doesn't count."
Again Pontifex resumed his pipe, puffing it alight. He spoke
smilingly, now--an ugly smile that curved his lips. He leaned
forward with a swift intent question.
"If it's hard to use your eyelids, Miles, answer with the pipe. Are
you going to tell me where the _John Simpson_ lays?"
Captain Hathaway sent a single spiral of smoke up-curling from his
pipe.
"No?" Pontifex ceased to smile. "We've tried torturing you, Miles,
and you're as stubborn a devil as I ever met. Do you want us to
bring the girl in here and torture _her_--under your eyes? Hm! You
remember Frenchy, who put the irons to your feet? Well--Frenchy has
spoken for her. And Frenchy comes aboard at Unalaska.
"Now, Miles, if you give me the bearings of the _Simpson_, I'll put
you and her and her man ashore at Unalaska, all shipshape. I give
you my solemn word on it, and you know my word means something;
whatever else I do, I don't break my word! By the time we reach
Unalaska you'll understand pretty well how we're going to work on
things. The day we hit Unimak Pass I'll ask you once more--and only
once. If you refuse, I'll set to work on the girl--or Frenchy will.
You think it over, Miles. You think it over hard, blast you! Now
that she's here, I'm going to _make_ you talk!"
Pontifex knocked out his pipe and that of Hathaway. Then he went on
deck.
In the meantime his good wife was visiting the Dennis cabin.
Florence, for all her slim frailness, was untouched by _mal-de-mer_,
and greeted the Missus smilingly. Tom Dennis, sitting on the lower
bunk, managed a weak grin. He was rapidly growing better.
"The steward brought yeou breakfast?" said the Missus, "Is Mr. Dennis
feeling better?"
"Quite, I think," responded Florence. "Surely we're not at sea?"
Mrs. Pontifex nodded. "Oh, yes, we're well aoutside Flattery."
"And what are we doing there?" demanded Tom Dennis in surprise.
"Making abaout nine knots," coolly returned the Missus, transfixing
him with her deep cold eyes. "Never mind discussing it naow. If
yeou folks will show up in the cabin at four bells, we'll talk it
aout!"
"But what does it mean?" Florence, a little pale, laid her hand upon
the woman's arm. Her eyes searched the rocklike features with
anxious pleading. "Won't you please tell me? There's nothing wrong?"
"Nothing wrong at all, dearie." Mrs. Pontifex patted the girl's hand
and smiled a flinty smile. "It means money in all our pockets,
that's what it means--aye, in yours, too! So don't think too hard of
us for running off to sea with yeou young folks until ye know all
abaout it.
"And naow, dearie, I have to do the cooking, because that blasted
cook of ours went ashore and didn't show up again. Taking care of
your poor father has 'baout worn me daown, and I know yeou'll be
willing to look after him a bit----"
"Of course! I meant to speak to you about it before this!" exclaimed
Florence. "If you'll show me----"
"Come right along with me. He ain't much trouble, poor man, and it's
the least we can do to make him comfortable. If there's anything
yeou want done, too, just call steward and tell him."
"We'll be back soon, Tom dear," said Florence, and departed with Mrs.
Pontifex.
When the door closed, Tom Dennis sat motionless for a moment, then
raised his head. He slipped to the deck and stood upright, holding
to the bunk. A slow smile crept into his chalky features, and
presently he stretched himself luxuriantly.
"Passing off! I'm bad, but not near so bad as I might be," he
commented audibly. "It's a good thing for me that I was raised on
the Maine coast, and know ships and the sea as well as anybody! They
don't know it, however, and Florence won't tell. Now, why the deuce
have they kidnapped us this way?"
Frowning he sipped some cold coffee from a pot left by the steward an
hour earlier, Then he went to his huge trunk of a grip, its
telescopic sides fat almost to bursting, which lay at the head of the
bunk.
He unlocked the big grip and opened it. Then he discarded his shirt
and collar, the same which he had worn the preceding day, and slipped
into a grey flannel shirt which he took from the suitcase. His tie
knotted about the collar, he returned to the grip and knelt above it.
Drawing forth some clothes, he threw them carelessly on the
floor--threw out more, until a pile of rumpled garments lay beside
him. Then he produced a large flat package and two small ones. He
opened these, disclosing six large phonograph records, a reproducer,
and a box of needles. Then, from within the suitcase he lifted out a
small hornless phonograph itself. He stared down at it and chuckled.
"I told Ericksen the truth when I said I'd given that square suitcase
to the porter," he reflected, as he fitted the reproducer to the
machine. "But I didn't mention that I'd kept the things in the
suitcase."
Just why he had done this, Tom Dennis was by no means certain, except
that his suspicions of Ericksen had never quite downed. It was very
curious that the sole baggage of the assassin had consisted of this
phonograph outfit. Bo'sun Joe's interest in the matter was also
curious; his presence in the compartment belonging to the assassin
had never ceased to trouble Tom Dennis. More than he cared to admit,
Dennis suspected that there was, or had been, some definite relation,
and by no means an unfriendly one, between Ericksen and the would-be
murderer.
And why had that man possessed nothing except this phonograph and six
grand-opera records? Dennis wanted to try out those records. He
strongly hoped that the labels might be a blind--that the records
might have some information to convey. Did those records hold the
secret, then?
Dennis wound up the machine, inserted a needle in the slot, and set
one of the records upon the turntable. To his complete and utter
stupefaction he found that upon the record was not a word; merely a
deep bass voice repeating the alphabet over and over in a slow and
distinct sequence! After each letter "zed", followed the numerals
from one to naught.
One after another, Dennis tried each of the six records, patiently
listening to that maddening repetition of that alphabet. There was
positively nothing else on them!
At length he glanced at his watch, found that it was nearly ten
o'clock, or four bells. With no little disdain and disappointment,
he bundled the phonograph and records back into the depths of his
suitcase, and was just locking the grip when Florence entered the
cabin.
"Are you ready, dear?" she demanded eagerly, a spot of colour in her
pale cheeks. "They're all waiting for us there in the cabin--and,
Tom! It's a company! The Hathaway Salvage Company!"
"And what does that mean?" asked Dennis smiling as he kissed her.
"They're going to tell us. Are you better, dear?"
"Oh, I'm all right--able to walk, anyhow. Forward, and solve the
mystery!"
Together they left their cabin and went aft.
In company with Miles Hathaway and the tall scarlet geranium in the
green-striped jar, they found five people sitting around the table.
At the head was Captain Pontifex, at the foot the Missus. On one
side sat Mr. Leman, pawing his fringe of whiskers. At the other sat
Ericksen, a satanic twist to his freckled mouth as he eyed Captain
Hathaway, and at his side the black boat-steerer, Corny.
For a wonder, Pontifex rose as Florence entered the room, the others
following his example. The skipper indicated two chairs placed
beside Leman.
"Will you sit down, please? I have the pleasure of introducing our
officers, except Mr. Mendez, who has the deck. Mr. Leman, our second
mate; you know Ericksen, I think, and Corny. This chair, Mrs.
Dennis--thank you. I might add that we are the officers and
directors of the Hathaway Salvage Company of which I am president,
Mrs. Pontifex, treasurer; Mr. Leman, secretary--the other gentlemen
directors."
Dennis, feeling rather helpless and bewildered, sank into the chair
beside Florence.
"For our own protection"--the skipper twirled his moustache--"we have
been forced to maintain silence until we were at sea. Were it known
that Captain Miles Hathaway were alive, a fortune would be lost to us
all; this one fact will explain many questions which may have
perplexed you, Mr. Dennis."
"A few things need explanation, all right," said Dennis.
"Conceded!" The skipper smiled. "I may add that we are not bound
for the whaling grounds, and we are not upon a whaling cruise, as
everyone has imagined. For that reason we have shipped Kanakas
for'ard; they are faithful good seamen, and ask no questions.
Neither they nor the other fo'c'sle hands, of course, are in this
company of ours."
"And what is the purpose of the company, then?" asked Florence
quickly.
"It may be very briefly stated in one word: salvage! Your father's
ship, the _John Simpson_, was lost at sea with all hands. But the
natives who brought your poor father into Unalaska told a story of
having found him upon the shore of an island, doubtless one of the
Aleuts; and under the lee of that island they had seen a wreck in
water so shallow that her masts stuck out above the surface. That
wreck was the _Simpson_.
"You may know that the majority of those islands are deserted,
waterless, good for nothing. Not even a Jap sealing poacher would
observe the masts of a wreck, unless by chance he came to the spot.
We may take it for granted that the _Simpson_ has never been found.
Unfortunately, the natives who brought in Captain Hathaway gave no
exact location and disappeared almost at once."
Tom Dennis leaned forward. "But why salvage a ship that's been
wrecked? She's of no earthly good! And her cargo will belong to the
owners."
"Not so. She has been taken off the register!" Captain Pontifex
showed his white teeth in a smile of perfect confidence. "The point
is this, Mr. Dennis: the ship was lost while _en route_ to
Vladivostok, laden with supplies for Russia. Those supplies
consisted of machine-guns almost entirely; of machine-guns and
ammunition.
"Water will not have harmed that cargo, Mr. Dennis--or if so, only
slightly. I have taken pains to ascertain that the guns were so
wrapped as to be waterproof. The value runs up close to a million
and a half of dollars. The inference is plain, eh?"
Tom Dennis sat back, stunned. The inference was plain indeed--a
million and a half to be had for the picking up!