THE WRECK
From Unalaska to the position indicated upon the chart as the
resting-place of the _John Simpson_ was, in the rough, six hundred
knots--nearly seven hundred miles.
When Tom Dennis wakened, the morning after the _Pelican_ tacked out
of the Unalaska channel, he found that she had, with the audacity of
all whaling ships, run through Unimak Pass in the dark and was now
tearing across the North Pacific at an eight-knot clip, with a stiff
south-easter rolling her along bravely.
Dennis realized full well that he must avoid all appearance of
suspicions having been awakened in him. When at breakfast Mrs.
Pontifex remarked upon the blessed relief of having the cook aboard,
Dennis quite ignored the subject therefore, conscious that Ericksen
was watching him with keen and predatory gaze.
"And when shall we make that position, Skipper?" he asked.
Pontifex shrugged. "If this breeze holds, it's a three-day run for
us. Barring a dead calm, we'll be on the spot--let's see, this is
Saturday; we'll be on the spot Tuesday morning without fail. Eh, Mr.
Leman?"
"Easy, sir. Had we better overhaul that diving-tackle, sir?"
"Yes. Break it out to-day. Bo'sun Joe, rig up a derrick for'ard
to-day; chances are we'll be able to lay close enough to the wreck to
swing the stuff directly aboard, and we'll not want to waste time. A
south-easter might lay us up on those islands. Ever been diving, Mr.
Dennis?"
Dennis nodded. "Twice. Never at sea, but in Lake Michigan."
"Then we'll have a new sensation for you, if you like." Pontifex
smiled cruelly.
"Bo'sun Joe and I are the only ones aboard with any experience, and
if you care to take a shift with us, we'll be glad."
"I'm in for anything that'll make me useful," said Dennis. "You
think the wreck is still on the rocks where we can reach it, then?"
"We're gambling on it," returned Pontifex curtly.
The wind held, and the old whaler blew down the miles of westering
with every stitch of canvas taut as a drumhead. That afternoon Tom
Dennis got a good straight look at the new cook--a most disreputable
little man, dirty and slouchy in the extreme. Gone were the trim
mustachios, gone was all the natty air; but the man was the same who
had spilled a vial of chloroform in the Chicago room of Tom Dennis.
There was no doubt about it.
Dennis, however, said nothing; later, when Corny introduced the cook
as Frenchy, he shook hands and was very pleasant, and if Dumont
suspected anything, his suspicions were set at rest by Dennis' air of
careless non-interest.
Upon the following day the brigantine was still tearing along with a
swirl of water hissing under her counter. Off to the north the
islands showed their mountain-tips against the sky, blue and
continuous as some distant mainland. Talking with the mates and
boat-steerers and Kanakas, Tom Dennis was entertained with many
stories of those islands: how fox- and seal-farmers were scattered
through the group; how small launches cruised the entire length of
the island chain with impunity; how in time to come there would be a
thriving island population where now were empty stretches of land or
scattered communities of miserable natives.
And there were other and more ominous tales: tales of Boguslav and
Katmai, of islands that came and went overnight, of oil-soaked
whalers caught under descending showers of hot ash and burned to the
water's edge. There were tales of seal-poaching, of poachers who
fought each other, of Yankees who fought Japs; and these tales verged
upon the personal. Nods and winks were interchanged when Bo'sun Joe
told about "men he had known", or when black Manuel Mendez related
exploits of which "he had heard". Tom Dennis gained some fine
material for feature-stories--but it worried him. He began to
realize that these men among whom he had fallen were, so far as their
natures were concerned, no better than pirates.
Then, upon the evening of the second day, came the affair which
proved that all restraint was now loosed.
Darkness was falling, and having no particular longing for the
society of the Missus and Pontifex, in the stern cabin, Dennis was in
the waist near the try-works, listening while Corny spun a whaling
yarn to the watch. The yarn was broken into by a sudden choking cry,
followed by an excited call in Portuguese. The voice was that of
Manuel Mendez who would take the deck from Mr. Leman in a few moments.
At sound of the cry, Corny whipped out his knife and was gone like a
shadow. Dennis was the first to follow, darting after the black
boat-steerer toward the windward side of the deck, whence the voice
had come.
An instant later, Dennis had turned the corner of the try-works.
What had happened he could not tell; but he saw the huge figure of
Manuel Mendez hanging to the mizzen-shrouds, groaning faintly. Close
by, the insignificant little cook was facing the glittering knife of
Corny--facing it with bare hands.
Corny, growling savage Cape Verde oaths, leaped. Swift as light was
Frenchy, darting in and out again, sweeping the knife aside, striking
catlike. Corny staggered back.
At that instant Mr. Leman swept upon the scene, his grey wisps of
hair flying, his long arms flailing. Frenchy, not hearing him, was
knocked headlong into the galley and fell with a tremendous crashing
of pots and pans.
"He keel Manuel!" cried out Corny, retreating from the second mate
and putting up his knife. "He mos' get my eyes--ah, de poor Manuel!"
The giant figure of the bearded black fell limply. Dennis retreated,
feeling sick; for Manuel Mendez had been stabbed with his own
knife--after his eyes had been gouged away. Even for sea-fighting,
there was something horrible about it.
Later, Dennis came upon the steward and two of the miserable white
sailors talking near the forecastle scuttle. The steward was
describing what had happened.
"Joked 'im, the mate did; chaffed 'im abaht some woman. Bli' me!
Frenchy was hup and at 'im like this." And the Cockney held the two
first fingers of his right hand forked and aloft. "Tried to jerk at
'is knife, 'e did, but Frenchy hup an' took if first--ugh! 'Orrible
it was. And now the Capting, 'e'll 'ang Frenchy."
Somebody guffawed in the darkness.
"Hang Frenchy? Not him! Frenchy an' the Skipper have sailed
together for years, they tell me. Hey, mates?"
"You bet," came a response. "Skipper don' dast hang _him_, I guess."
To Dennis it was rankly incredible; but it was true. In the morning
Manuel Mendez, who would smile no more his white-toothed hungry
smile, was sent overside with a chunk of coal sewed at his feet; and
as the body was committed to the deep, Frenchy leaped to the rail and
sent a bucket of slush over the canvas. An old whaling custom, this,
to keep the dead man's ghost from following the ship. But Frenchy
remained untouched for his crime. If there were any inquiry or
punishment, Dennis never heard of it. The ship's routine pursued its
usual course, Ericksen being advanced to the position of second mate,
Leman to that of first mate.
One man aboard, however, did not forget the happening; and this was
Corny, the compatriot of the murdered mate. More than once, Dennis
saw Corny's eyes follow Frenchy about the deck with a black,
murderous look.
These things, however, swiftly were forgotten in the rumoured
vicinity of the wreck; and since everyone aboard either knew, or had
guessed, the import of this strange cruise, the ship hummed like a
beehive with speculation and gossip. At noon, with the remarkable
keenness which distinguishes whaling skippers, Captain Pontifex
completed his observations and then laid out a new course, stating
that it would bring them under the lee of the island at four bells in
the morning watch, at which time the brigantine was to be hove to and
await daylight.
Tom Dennis was the only one aboard, except Captain Pontifex and the
Missus who did not sleep by watches. At dinner that night the
skipper broached a bottle of wine, and sent forward a tot of grog for
all hands; suppressed excitement ruled the ship, even the gentle
Kanakas breaking into wild native songs until suppressed by the
Skipper's order. After an evening of much talk, mainly about the
various methods of raising sunken treasure, Dennis turned in.
With the morning came disenchantment. Dennis had dreamed of gold-mad
sailors, of wild haste, of everything forgotten save the proximity of
sudden riches. But once on deck he found things very different. The
_Pelican_ was standing across the end of a barren rocky island; just
beyond and ahead of her was a long scooped-out depression in the
rocky shore, and in the centre of this depression lay the wreck of
the _Simpson_. The seamen were attending strictly to their positions
and duties; there was no hilarious ring of voices, and everything was
about as romantic as a visit to a coaling-station.
But the _John Simpson_ was there--no doubt about it!
Her stern, apparently wedged in among a nest of rocks, stood up at a
sharp angle, the deck not quite awash but running down into the water
swiftly. The aftermast stood a broken stump. At some distance
showed the foremast, likewise broken. Dennis turned to Pontifex and
the Missus who stood beside him.
"That foremast seems a long distance away," he said. "Doesn't look
natural."
"Broke in two," vouchsafed the Missus curtly. Pontifex nodded.
"That's it," he stated with conviction. "Fore part lays in deep
water--eight or ten fathom, probably. Look at her stern. See the
water a-drip? She's well covered at high tide: just now the tide's
out. No wonder she broke!"
"Looks as if we'd anchor right close to her fore-hatch," said the
Missus.
Ericksen, with a whaleboat and hand-line, was engaged in taking
soundings of the position. Suddenly a savage exclamation escaped
Pontifex who had been scrutinizing the visible stern of the wreck
through a pair of binoculars.
"Take charge, Mr. Leman," snapped the skipper, then lifted his voice.
"Corny! Lower away--four hands will be enough to row us in. Come
on, Mr. Dennis!"
As Corny's crew leaped to the falls of a forward boat, Pontifex
strode forward, his thin face murderous. Dennis followed him in
amazement.
"What's the trouble, Skipper?"
"Come on," responded Pontifex snarlingly. "I'm not sure yet--but if
it's true----"
Seeing that the Skipper was in no mood for questions, Dennis said
nothing further but followed into the whaleboat. Four Kanakas gave
way at the long oars, and the boat began to slide landward. Pontifex
studied the wreck through his binoculars a moment, then handed the
glasses to Dennis.
"Look at it--on the mainmast!"
Puzzled, Dennis focused on the stump of the mainmast. High up, so
high as to be well beyond reach, he discerned a small object; it
looked like a bit of board nailed to the mast.
"Is that writing on it?" he exclaimed, lowering the glasses.
Pontifex nodded sourly. "Probably. We'll soon see."
Boatswain Joe's boat, which had finished its survey and was heading
for the ship, passed within hail. Pontifex transmitted word to Mr.
Leman by Ericksen, ordering the _Pelican_ laid as close alongside the
fore-hatch of the wreck as the depth would allow. Bo'sun Joe
reported that the fore-part of the _Simpson_ lay in nine fathoms,
with fair holding-ground for the anchors, and that the whaler could
crowd alongside her easily.
As their boat drew in, Tom Dennis could see that the stern of the
wreck must indeed be completely submerged at low tide; this was
attested by the barnacles and weedy growths covering the rails and
decking. But it was the square bit of plank nailed to the mast which
drew his gaze and that of the Skipper.
"Ah!" cried Pontifex, with a furious oath. "Look at that, Dennis! A
painted sign!"
Taking the glasses, Dennis could indeed make out that the board
appeared to bear words or characters--and to his eye they were
Japanese. At this query, the skipper swore again.
"Aye, the yellow scum! They swarm around the islands, raiding
fox-farms and poaching or trading according as they dare. One of
their boats happened along here, blast the luck, and saw the wreck;
posted a sign to warn off their own countrymen, and went for help.
They came at high water and didn't wait for ebb tide. Notice where
that sign is, up there? Way enough, Corny; we don't want to board
her."
The boat swung around on idle oars, twenty feet from the rocks that
held the stern of the _Simpson_. Dennis scrutinized the board
carefully, then handed the glasses to Pontifex.
"It's tough luck, Skipper," he said quietly. "To think that she lay
here undiscovered for over two years, then was found only a week or
so before we came!"
"A week?" Pontifex stared at him with flaming eyes. "How d'ye know
that?"
"Focus up on those nail-heads in that board. They're rusty, of
course, but the rust hasn't gone into the wood around them--see? And
the black paint on the board looks pretty glossy when the sunlight
catches it right."
"Right you are!" commented the Skipper with a growl.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"_Do_ about it!" Pontifex looked venomous. "Fight, by the lord
Harry! This is salvage. Whoever can hold hardest, gets. Let me get
the old brig anchored in here, and I'd like to see any dirty yellow
poachers pry my fingers loose!"
Dennis remembered the big gun-rack in the cabin, and said no more.
Rifles can be used for other purposes than killing seals and bears.
"We'll be all snug by breakfast-time," added Pontifex, watching the
_Pelican_ come slowly in as her top canvas fluttered down. "Then
we'll set to work _pronto_. We don't want a gale to catch us here,
either. More likely to catch fog, anyway."
And the skipper made good his words. Before seven bells were struck
at 7.20 that morning* the _Pelican_ was berthed alongside the fore
half of the _Simpson_ and all was made snug below and aloft. Captain
Pontifex called all hands and made an address.
* Usually struck at this time so the relieving watch may breakfast
first.
"The Japs have been here, and they'll be back," he said curtly.
"There's salvage money ahead of everybody, men, so we're going to
pitch in and work day and night, watch and watch. The day watches
will devote themselves to getting the stuff aboard, because a diver
can't remain down very long in this water: all hands will have a
chance at going down. The night watches will stow the stuff below
and make a clear deck before morning.
"While we're lying here, we'll redistribute the watches. Mr. Leman
and Mr. Ericksen will take the port watch, I'll take the starboard
watch with Mr. Dennis and Corny. One man from each watch will be set
ashore--that high point of rock makes a better lookout perch than the
crosstrees--to watch for the approach of any craft whatever. And
mark this, men! If you don't report back to the beach when the
watches are changed, I'll come ashore and hunt you down with a
shotgun! That's all. The starboard watch will keep the deck."
Did the port watch go below? Not yet! Breakfast was a formality, a
hurriedly bolted affair; ten minutes later one of the four white
seamen was set ashore as lookout, and the Skipper fell to work.
"You'll mind the pumps my watch, my dear," said Pontifex to the
Missus. "When I'm down, I'll trust nobody else to watch my air
supply. Do you want to go down, Mr. Dennis?"
"You bet," and Dennis laughed. "I'd like nothing better!"
A complete double set of diving apparatus was already awaiting them.